


A Mirror Turned (Echos Of A Shattered Soul)

by AuroraKant



Series: A Mirror Full Of Demons [4]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: (eventually) - Freeform, Additional Warnings Per Chapter In The Chapter Notes, Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Stephanie Brown/Cassandra Cain - Freeform, Bruce Wayne Tries, Bruce Wayne is Bad at Communicating, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Bruce Wayne's C+ Parenting, Canon-Typical Violence, Cassandra Cain is Black Bat, Damian Wayne is Robin, Damian Wayne is the Demon's Head, Depression, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Dick Grayson is a Talon, Dimension Travel, Discussions of Past Trauma, Earth 49311, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jason Todd is Red Mask, Jason Todd is the Red Hood, POV Changes, Stephanie Brown is Batgirl, Suicidal Thoughts, These Kids Are Not Alright, They need hugs, Tim Drake is Red Robin, Universe Travel, Wordcount: Over 100.000, YeetDC2020, all of them are a mess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:49:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 87,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26378329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraKant/pseuds/AuroraKant
Summary: It begins like this:Dick returns from patrol only to be greeted by a Talon that looks suspiciously like him.It continues like this:Twisted and evil members of the Bat Clan keep on appearing, bringing pain and chaos with them, changing everything and nothing alike.It ends like this:With a whimper and not a bang...Or: A dark version of Batman's family appears in Gotham, forcing Batman and his allies to act quickly while confronting dark truths about themselves.
Relationships: Batfamily - Relationship, Bruce Wayne & Everyone, Cassandra Cain & Duke Thomas, Cassandra Cain & Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Duke Thomas & Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Damian Wayne & Tim Drake, Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Stephanie Brown & Cassandra Cain
Series: A Mirror Full Of Demons [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1679320
Comments: 221
Kudos: 333





	1. Dangerous Whispers - Talon - Dick

**Author's Note:**

> Hello my wonderful friends!!!  
> This is the beginning of something great, of something terrible, of something wonderful! This is the beginning of the... MOTHER DOUGH!  
> (I am sorry, I was forced to write it like that)  
> Nah, to be less sensational: This is the beginning of a long fic I have been working on for literal ages... and a fic I already wrote 111k words off.
> 
> Some things to start this off, since I started writing this with the idea of setting it in rebirth continuity, only to abandon that thought when it came to writing the girls... so we get a pretty wide variety of characterizations:  
> \- Nightwing #30 happened but with far less punches and more emotional manipulation instead.  
> \- Batman #71 didn’t happen, instead Bruce told Tim the information like a sane person hidden in a verbal code  
> \- RHatO #25 didn’t happen like that: Bruce and Jason had a big falling out  
> \- Damian is a child who is probably given too much freedom by his dad, but he is NOT creating a Secret Supervillain Prison. He is 13, dammit. 
> 
> Many thanks to those that betaed for me! Special shout-out to Kay! <3
> 
> I wrote [a fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23348440) that takes place roughly a year before this, but you don't have to read that one in order to understand this one!
> 
> Have fun!
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Depression, A Tiny Amount Of Blood, Suicidal Thoughts

People thought Talon was stupid. They were wrong. Talon wasn’t stupid, it was just stubborn.

The portal in front of Talon wanted it to step closer, and Talon was unable to stop staring, the knowledge that _this was it_ , keeping it transfixed. This was the last thing Talon would have to do – the last step it had to take – to get what it wanted: Talon’s dad.

Talon wanted nothing more than to get its dad back… and Talon would get him even if that meant traveling through the multiverse. Even if it meant leaving everything behind.

Talon took that one step forward – and the world as it knew it, ceased to exist.

* * *

Dick was tired; it had been a long night. The injury on his shoulder certainly didn’t help. It was an old one, which liked to act up when Dick was stressed or when it rained. But who was he kidding? The shoulder was almost always acting up. And what else was it supposed to do with the life Dick led.

It just bothered him today especially since Dick was sure it was the injury’s fault that he hadn’t been able to catch the serial robber he had been trying to get for weeks now. But there was nothing he could do to change that, besides returning home, taking a hot shower and getting some ice for his shoulder, before falling into bed for a good night’s rest. Or a few hours of rest before he had to get up again to go to his day job as a watchman in the Natural History Museum. And after that was done, he would try catching Ruthless Rob again as Nightwing.

And try again the night after, if he failed once more.

His apartment was silent when he climbed in through the window. And dark. Dick had expected nothing less, and yet a pang went through his heart at the reminder that he was alone. There was no girlfriend or boyfriend, no little brother or sister, no best friend waiting for him. There hadn’t been since Dick had returned from being Ric.

And that hurt. It hurt like a bitch. But Dick would do everything in his power to make sure that nobody else would be pulled down into the mess that was his own head.

He was sure – _sure_ – that his family had done everything in their power to help and support his amnesic self. It wasn’t their fault that they hadn’t succeeded. It wasn’t their fault that Dick had basically no friends left and no idea how to connect with his own brothers anymore.

It wasn’t their fault that Dick no longer had anyone waiting for him; no one to tell him that they loved him, cared for him, longed for him. It almost felt as if Dick was deader now than he had been when everyone had thought he’d been killed. The family – heck, the entire superhero community – had grieved Dick Grayson once again. And it seemed as if there was no coming back this time. Hell, his relationships had never been the same since he had come back the first time.

The headaches and epileptic episodes Dick had experienced ever since he had been shot in the head and came back wrong certainly hadn’t helped either. Even if Dick had made sure that only Bruce and Alfred had the ability to access his medical files anymore. He couldn’t risk Damian accidentally seeing the information, or Jason using it against him.

So, yes, his apartment was silent and lonely and dark when he came back.

It was his old one, the one he had had before this whole mess started, but it felt foreign now _, wrong_. Most of his belongings were still in boxes and Dick could vaguely remember having only recently moved when that damned bullet took his brains out. But if his own recollection of his life was to be trusted – and Dick couldn’t really do that, not anymore – Past Dick hadn’t planned on staying here long anyways.

Because Past Dick never stayed anywhere long. He had been born into moving, and after Bruce each attempt at staying put, at settling down, had ended in disaster. So, Dick had taken to moving again. Ric as well – this new person Dick had become – choosing a car over the reminders of a life he didn’t know.

Dick could relate.

He wanted to move on as well, even though most of his memories had returned. He wanted to leave this silent grave of a person, who had had it all, behind and find something loud. Something colorful to quell the loneliness inside his heart. He wanted people. Love. Friends. Family. He wanted something to look forward to besides this dark apartment and boxes that were never meant to be unpacked.

It was easy to slide into his living room through the window, turning the alarms back on the moment his feet touched the ground. He wasn’t really in the mood for people robbing him in his own home. The throbbing in his shoulder had grown steadily stronger on his way home, and Dick knew that icing the sore muscle was more important than getting that hot shower the rest of his body wanted.

Not wanting to drag mud onto the white kitchen tiles, his gauntlets and boots were the first to go. Once that was done Dick stripped down the upper part of his Nightwing suit to better address the offending injury.

Dick pressed the ice onto his shoulder, wincing from the cold. The room was still dark, when he heard a crash. A crash coming from _inside_ his apartment; an apartment that should be painfully empty.

Absentmindedly Dick searched for his escrima, taking one of them into the hand that was not currently occupied holding a bag of ice. His steps were silent as he went back into the living room, crossing through on his way to the bedroom. The sound had come from that direction, so his assailant was probably either in the bathroom or in his bed.

He really had jinxed himself when he had wished for a nice and unadventurous night without any more robbers earlier.

With each step Dick took into the direction of the next door, his thoughts came faster. Who was it? And why? His alarms hadn’t been triggered, so how did that person get into the apartment? What did they want? Had they figured out his identity?

One quick glance at the parts of his uniform carelessly thrown around in the living room told him that his secret identity wasn’t currently the best hidden secret in the world. If they hadn't known Dick Grayson was Nightwing before, they probably would now.

Welp.

It wasn’t as if Dick got many visitors these days, so he just didn’t care about putting his own stuff away. And honestly? It just took a kind of energy Dick didn’t have anymore.

But it could have been his family? That made sense. They all knew how to deal with the alarms and triggers and they also knew his secret identity. Maybe one of them had crashed in Blüdhaven and had come to Dick, knowing that they could use his bed and shower.

Yeah, that was probably it. Who else would go through the effort of breaking into this tightly protected apartment just to hide in his bedroom? No, it probably was one of his brothers. Maybe Damian. Dick had missed the little brat and the bond they shared.

The muscles in his back relaxed, his stance less ready to attack and more cautious when he took the final steps towards his own bedroom.

Hidden by the shadows of the hallway, he used his one escrima stick to forcefully push open the door. But only darkness greeted him. And even when Dick took a few steps forward, the sight in front of him didn’t change:

His own unmade bed, with the sheets half on the floor, the heaps of dirty clothes strewn around, the old dishes next to his bedside table, the all-encompassing chaos.

But no brother. No sister. Just his own bed and the proof that everything was falling apart.

Looking at the mess in front of him, Dick was actually kind of happy Damian wasn’t waiting for him in there. The kid would just be disappointed in him. Damian would only see what kind of loser Dick was, how far he had fallen. How Dick was just as much of a failure as Ric had been.

Dick had to close his eyes to keep the tears from falling. He was tired. He was exhausted. He… he had no reason to cry. Really! He only had himself to blame. He just needed some sleep. A few hours of shut-eye and he would be as good as new.

He stumbled towards his bed, the hot shower forgotten, when he once again heard something: a second, fainter crash, coming from his closet. The closet he kept all his weapons and gear in.

Tiredness fled from his body, chased away by the adrenaline of surprise.

Dick knew that it was probably useless, that his stow-away probably already knew that he was here, but he kept his steps silent and his guard raised. It took no time at all to cross the room and stand in front of the closet, the room still dark and Dick’s eyes still hidden behind a mask that enhanced his night vision.

When he opened the closet door, he almost wished for his eyes to be unable to see. For the horrid sight to be hidden from him.

It was Dick Grayson staring back. Dick Grayson but… wrong. So, so _wrong_.

It was his own face, the one he tried not to look at in the mirror each morning, staring back at him. It was his own face, but younger, but missing the scar on his head, that looked at Dick unblinkingly. Paler (oh, so much paler), with black veins (and Dick knew what that meant), with golden eyes (like a hawk… or an Owl), with black robes and gold accents (the uniform Dick feared and dreamt about).

_The Court of Owls._

Had they found another relative of Dick? Had they cloned him after their attempt to brainwash him had failed? Had Cobb not been the only one? What was going on?

But something else was nagging at the back of Dick’s brain. The uniform was wrong, Dick noticed, the gold accents at weird places. And there was a spark of something besides pure obedience burning in those golden eyes as they roamed Dick's body, probably accessing his threat level.

Suddenly, Dick cursed the fact that he hadn’t put the Nightwing suit back on before starting to search for the assailant; his naked chest unfitting for the kind of situation he was in, while simultaneously presenting a giant and easy target. He tightened the hold on his one escrima, the ice package long forgotten.

His… clone? Double? Foil?... continued to stare at him and Dick was afraid of what would happen if he broke the eye contact. He was no longer in any shape to win a fight, his bones wary, his shoulder twinging, and he was tired of being attacked in places he should be allowed to feel safe in.

But he would fight. He would always fight when it came to the Court of Owls. They had been the reason his life got derailed like this, using a Traumatic Brain Injury against him. Using him while he had been at his lowest. At his most vulnerable.

And they had almost succeeded – they had almost turned him into something like the being in front of him: A Talon.

“The Court and its King has sentenced you to die.”

The shift was barely noticeable, one moment the… Owl… had been kneeling inside of a full closet, his big eyes unblinking disks of gold, and the next Dick had to parry the slash of a knife he hadn’t even known existed with his escrima.

The Talon’s voice sounded rough, like the voice of a smoker or someone who wasn’t used to talking. It didn’t sound like Dick’s. This small bit of relief – this brief stint of hope – made it easier to counter, to slip his food behind the knee of his opponent and let him crash into the floor. Or the floor of the closet.

And Dick wasted no time. Either the Talon hadn’t counted on his speed, or he had been truly disadvantaged by the limited movement inside of the small space. Dick managed to push him down, a knee on the Talon’s stomach, the escrima digging into his throat:

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

There was no need for niceties, no question after the who. The Talon had already said it himself: The Court and its King had sent him. Even if Dick had never heard of a king of the Owls before. Maybe this was a new branch. Or a new elite group. Those fuckers always evolved – always found new ways to destroy Dick’s life and the lives of millions of people.

“You are sentenced to die.”

“Shut up and answer my question!”

_Well, he can’t do both now, can he?_

His own sarcastic voice wasn’t helping, especially since Dick wasn’t really in the mood for jokes and puns. He wanted answers. And it wasn’t as if the Talon hadn’t understood exactly what Dick had asked him to do:

“There can only be one Talon. And Talon is already Talon – you have to die. The Court of Owls has sentenced you to die.”

_Only one Talon? Wh-?_

Dick’s short pause of indecision had been enough. One moment he had been kneeling on top of Talon, the next his back forcefully connected with the closet door, Talon pushing Dick away from him, the strength in his legs inhuman. Dick struggled to get his footing back, which took long enough for Talon to be able to flee into the room and position himself close to the door leading into the hallway.

In a matter of seconds, Dick had lost all control of the situation.

He was half-naked, had only one weapon, and he was now in a strategically dumb place. With enough time he would have been able to find weapons and a spare uniform in the closet behind him, but one glance at the chaos inside, told him that his one escrima would have to be enough.

And the Talon didn’t want to wait. He sprung forward, his movements swift and elegant, knives in both of his hands. Dick used up all of the luck the universe owed him after the year he had had when he stumbled back, barely evading the deadly blades, not getting hurt in the process.

But Talon didn’t stop. The assassin leaped in Dick’s direction once again, only this time Dick was faster, dropping low before the knife could connect with his collarbone. Dick tried to go for Talon’s legs once again, but his sweeping kick never connected, Talon dancing out of its range.

Still, Dick had gotten his groove back; defending this tiny space, and letting Talon know that it wouldn’t be _that_ easy to defeat him, had given him… hope. Spunk. Adrenaline.

For a while after that, their fight became an exchange of hits and kicks, clothes being thrown around as a distraction, while Dick used the environment against his attacker, and Talon used the fact that he was probably undead and no longer human to his advantage.

It worked – at least for a while - leaving Dick’s room in shambles, but him intact, sweat glistering and running down his bare back; Talon’s uniform ripped and dirtied in the places Dick had managed to make his hits connect.

_His shoulder would kill him tomorrow._

And then Talon faltered. It was a short moment, barely noticeable, but Dick had grown used to the rhythm of their weapons meeting, and the small disruption sent shivers of joy through his body. This was it. This was all he needed, all he wanted: An opening. A weakness in an enemy created to have none.

Dick pushed forward, making his escrima hit even harder, blocking with his other arm – the bruising would be excessive tomorrow – when Talon stumbled once more, his foot getting caught in a pair of Dick’s old jeans. Dick knew that Talon would recover fast; he knew that jeans were barely a hindrance at all, but he also knew that this was the moment he had been waiting for:

He feinted right, switched on the electricity of his escrima, and rammed the stick into Talon’s stomach. The currency flooded Talon’s system – and Dick could _feel_ the moment the realization hit him that he might have made a mistake.

There was a piercing pain in his side, a few inches beneath his right nipple, and he didn’t have to look to know that Talon had stabbed him with one of his knives. That there was a knife sticking out of his side.

Dick’s tactic might have worked on a normal person, on a person who hadn’t been broken beyond the ability to die or feel pain, but Talon was not that. Talon had used the excruciating pain and the spasming muscles to cut into Dick. Had used Dick’s moment of triumph against him, slaying him while Dick had been sure of his victory.

Now it was Dick that faltered, his brain focused on the burning sensation on his side, on the blood dripping down onto the rest of his suit, the adrenaline finally having enough for the day and leaving. He took Talon down with him, the electricity of the escrima still running through the undead body. 

Normally he would have pulled his weapon back already, afraid of permanently hurting his opponent, but Dick figured that just this once it wasn’t really all that important. Instead he sat next to the twitching Talon, his own chest heaving, and waited for the charge to run out.

And it did, Talon falling forward as if his strings had been cut. Unconscious. _Finally_.

Dick could feel the tendrils of darkness closing in on him as well, and he knew that unconsciousness would claim him in a couple of minutes. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t moved the knife, Talons were the best in what they were doing, and Dick’s bare chest had presented more than just one possible target for a fatal wound.

The comm unit was still in his ear, Dick only had to activate it and the cavalry would come and save him. But… Did he even want that? Did he want to be saved just for his entire family to see how shitty he was doing? Did he want Damian and Tim and Cass to be pulled into this mess that had somehow forcefully broken into his apartment and attacked him?

If there was one thing Dick was sure of, it was that he wanted his little siblings as far away from the Court of Owls as possible. The Court had destroyed so much. They had almost succeeded in destroying Dick… he couldn’t endanger his siblings like that. He wouldn’t.

His gaze found the Talon, the form still unmoving. Dick knew he really should make sure the assassin was bound and unable to escape before he lost his own battle with consciousness. It would be silly of him to let Talon go, just because Dick hadn’t found the energy to cuff him to the radiator.

But one desperate try to get up was enough to tell Dick that he wouldn’t manage to do just that anymore. He should have acted immediately – but it was too late for that now.

Instead he looked at the Talon again, at the face that was so similar to his own but so much younger, to the dark hair and the place where that cursed scar should be but wasn’t, and made a choice.

Dick might not want his siblings to get into contact with the Court, but he liked the idea of a Talon roaming freely through Blüdhaven and Gotham even less. His voice was breathless, his vision swimming, when he finally activated the comms:

“Nightwing to Cave. Code Red. Attack by… the Court in my apartment. We might have a problem, B… Oh, and I need medical”

Dick didn’t know if Bruce answered, or if it was Babs handling the comms tonight. And how should he know? He lost conscience the moment he finished speaking.


	2. The Eye - Cass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cass returned home because she wanted a family - instead she was once again the one forced to watch. Not even Talon could change that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is Wednesday, my dudes!!!  
> And that means that you are getting the next chapter of my Mother Dough!   
> So many thanks to all of you, who commented and encouraged me! I see your subscriptions and bookmarks too! Thank you so much!!! <3

The Cave was loud. And Cass was used to it. She was used to the yelling, the screaming, the insults and innuendoes thrown around whenever lager parts of the family got together. She was used to being overlooked.

Over the years she had come to love the silence and the things it hid. She liked being invisible when she hunted a crook, or a shadow when she played hide and seek with Stephanie. But it always hurt when it was her family who forgot her in moments of ideocracy, in a situation packed full with stress and pain and hurt.

As soon as everyone else got loud, no one listened to Cass’s silence anymore. Even if it was just as important, just as full of information as their meaningless yells. Maybe even more so. _Hah_ , probably more so.

And yet… they had taught her how to speak, and how to fall in love with words. They had taught her ballet, and how to create art and beauty instead of pain with her body. They had given her a voice – only they rarely stopped to listen to it.

Normally, it was different.

Normally, Bruce would spare her a glance that told Cass everything she needed to knowand made clear what her opinion was. Or Steph would send a wink in her direction. Tim would share a silent greeting, Damian a loud one, and Dick would search for her closeness with a hug and a smile.

But that had been before… Before Bruce had been gone for a week, switched with the creepy imposter Cass hated with a passion – hated because she was unable to read him, unable to spot the lies he told her brothers. All she had known was that he was the wrong one – that he was not the Bruce she called Dad.

And then _her_ Bruce had returned, world wary and silent in a way Cass didn’t like. No, she had hated the way in which his eyes would follow her, how his face lost all color when he stared at one of the boys. Something had happened and Cass never got the chance to find out what.

Jason fake-killed the Penguin on live television and Bruce fought with him. Cass had found Bruce crying in his room later that day, sobbing about how he should have known what Jay’s plan had been all along. About the mistakes he had just made… about how Jason would never want to talk to him ever again. And Cass had seen the “and I deserve it! And he should!” written in every movement of Bruce’s arm, in every sob shaking this unshakeable body.

But that hadn’t been enough; the pain this family was forced to endure never ending. Dick had been shot in the head. And someone else came home from the hospital weeks later. Someone dressed in Dick’s body. Someone who moved like a stranger and talked like an enemy. Cass hadn’t liked Ric, but that didn’t mean that she hadn’t also seen the conviction behind Bruce’s decision when he showed Ric the Cave.

She had seen his intent for chaos. She had seen that he knew what was going to happen the moment the Batman swept in and presented himself to the recovering Ric. She had seen the grief and the satisfaction in his stance when Ric fled from the Cave, the Manor, their lives.

And she hadn’t stopped Bruce. Because she trusted him. Because she knew that he had a reason. She had to believe in him. Because what else would be left, if she didn’t?

He was the only person she knew that always, 100% of the time, looked at her as if she was Cass.

People looked at her all the time. They stopped and stared, and they saw a girl, a deadly assassin, a monster--- but rarely did people actually see her. Her family did, but even then, they tended to slip up, getting lost in the picture society had of her, the picture they themselves had created in their heads. But Bruce never did.

He looked at her and saw Cass.

Which was why it hurt so much when he stopped looking. When he turned his back to her, focusing instead on the yelling of her brothers. Because he was the only one that saw, and he chose not to look. He never did anymore, ever since he returned from his trip through the multiverse.

It sucked on multiple levels. Especially since Cass knew that he was lying.

She knew that he was lying and hiding and playing the long game. She didn’t know what exactly he was lying about, what this horrible thing was he tried to bury, but she could see it slowly eating him up. She could see the doubt and hurt and loneliness corroding him.

And it sucked.

Because Cass knew that she would be able to help, should he just decide to _look_ at her.

Cass was a problem solver, maybe not in the way Bruce or Tim were, but that was what made her so valuable. The boys tended to get lost in facts – while Cass was able to see the truth.

And right now, the truth was, that someone had to force Bruce into spilling the beans. It just sucked that that someone was likely going to have to be her.

Cass had decided against staying in Hong Kong, leaving Duke to keep the city safe and Batman INC. running. She had returned because she had missed her family, because she knew that she had just as much a right to love and support and community than any of the boys had, and that she was more than Bruce’s therapist. She was his daughter.

Yes, she understood Bruce in a way maybe only Clark and Dick did besides her, but that didn’t mean that it was her job to solve his issues. She wanted a dad. She wanted the hugs and the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, the ones that always appeared when he told a corny joke as if it was a secret.

She wanted ice cream dates and dance recitals, piggyback rides and prank wars, silly grimace competitions and scary movie marathons, iced tea in the summer and hot chocolate in front of a fire in the winter _back_. She wanted her dad back. 

She hadn’t had that ever since the multiverse happened. Ever since Dick got shot and Ric had been unable to help carry Bruce. Ever since Jason had left with a well-deserved “Fuck you!” in Bruce’s direction…

And if Cass had to single-handedly fight Bruce to get her dad back, she would do it. She didn’t want to be the one to send him reeling, but she would. And looking at his stance, at the tension and fear coiled up in his back as he fought with the boys, she would probably never get a better chance than this.

“I am just asking you to be honest with us for once in your fucking life, Bruce!”

The first voice that caught Cass’s attention after she made her choice was Dick’s. Dick, not Ric. The man – her brother – had been back for two months now, and Cass could see the pain clinging to his very being. It was weird for Dick to look like this, his movements normally singing songs of hope and joy and tomorrows. Now tiredness colored him grey, as he sat on the medical gurney next to the unconscious form of their _guest_.

They had gotten his SOS barely in time, Dick almost dead when they reached Blüdhaven. But he had survived, he had lived to see another day, and now he had joined them for this fight, his voice winded, his body begging for a rest. He was high on painkillers and disappointment. The tension of almost dying hadn’t settled on him, though. No. Cass could see the panic and fear of almost losing him _again_ in Damian’s, Tim’s, and Bruce’s stances. Heck, Cass could still feel her own drowning grief at the idea of living in a world without him once more.

Sometimes she wondered if Bruce’s decision to give Dick space to get to know himself again had been the right one. If she shouldn’t have gone and asked Dick himself, before she made the choice to keep to Gotham, so Ric could become Dick again.

But it was too late for that now. Now, they were in the Cave, all of them standing – or sitting in Dick’s case – around a medical gurney with a… _Talon_ on it.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Bruce’s voice was steel. And he was lying. Not only Cass could see that; everyone currently in the Cave knew that Bruce had been aware that this… Talon existed. And yet… Bruce acted as if there was still a way out of this situation that didn’t involve him coming clean.

Or how Tim said it, hurt visible in his shoulders:

“Cut the crap, B! None of us are new to this game! We are professionals! And all of us saw that you recognized this Talon! Hell, even Dick noticed, and he was bleeding out on the floor! The fact that you think you can shit on us like this… I am honestly insulted. You are not the only detective in the family!”

His body carried more than just the anger over this particular slight. Cass could see the constant doubt humming through Tim’s muscles, could see the way he was asking for love, for trust, for closeness, without ever daring to speak those words aloud.

Tim was sad, had been for a long time, and Cass had no idea how to solve that.

Honestly? She didn’t know how to help any of them. She couldn’t make Dick whole again, or Tim happy, or Damian feel accepted. She couldn’t give Jason and Steph the fatherly love they both craved. The only thing she might be able to do was send Bruce down the right path – and then Bruce could try _seeing_ again. Because Cass was tired of it. She was tired of him willingly closing his eyes on them all.

She was tired of watching how much they all hurt without being able to help. She was tired of being the only one able to read between the lines.

She wanted to be a young adult as well. She wanted to yell, and dance, and create havoc. She wanted to fight, and laugh, and eat junk food.

She wanted to be Cass again instead of the emotional laborer of this family.

In that moment her heart ached for Hong Kong and for Duke – it was weird to long for a place that had made her feel lonely and isolated. But Duke had been a saving grace, a pillar to lean onto, when she had had no one else. He had taken some of the weight suffocating her, and now she was carrying it alone again.

If only Bruce would make it easier for her:

“I do not know what you mean. This is a Talon. My surprise is solely explained by the uncanny resemblance between him and Dick.”

“Father. I would very much welcome you just being honest with us! It wasn’t just surprise – you know why this Talon looks like Grayson! Why aren’t you telling us what happened?”

Damian always sounded angry, even if he rarely actually gave into the rage burning in his veins. Most of the time Damian's anger was a cover, masking his fear, his pain, and sadly, his love. She could understand where he was coming from – if no one ever taught you how to deal with your emotions in a differentiated manner, you just chose one emotion and stuck to it.

Cass had had silence chosen for her, and she had spent the last few years doing her best to live with all these other emotions as well. At letting herself express the wrath she felt, the dissatisfaction, but also the joy.

But Damian didn’t have that yet. He was still a child, and the few years away from the League hadn’t been enough to teach him how to express himself in a healthy manner. And with Bruce behaving like this, he certainly wasn’t going to learn it in the Manor.

The entire Cave was filled with the hum of th4eir disbelief and the ego of too many great heroes. They would get nowhere. Not even Dick’s tired “Bruce…” would change that. Cass had the vague feeling that once again all the emotions and all the movement had been so loud, she had forgotten to listen to the actual words as well.

But maybe Cass could… Maybe she could step outside of her head for a minute and deliver the nerve strike needed to get Bruce talking. She took a literal step forward then, the eyes of everyone in the room focusing on her, the movement so deliberate that everyone knew she meant business.

Wait… everyone?

Yes, everyone. The Talon, previously unconscious in the middle of their gathering, had opened its eyes. They were unsettling in their golden color; in the void they hid behind unblinking eyelashes. They were unsettling because they were staring at her, looking at her like no one else in the family had done for the entire evening. They _saw_ her.

Cass didn’t like it. No, she didn’t like it one bit.

And Bruce must have sensed her unease – Dick still illiterate in the way her body talked – because he followed her gaze and found the Talon’s. Cass saw the moment Bruce noticed what she had, saw the moment Talon recognized Bruce, saw the moment everything went to shit.

Well, she heard it too – everyone did – when the Talon’s scratchy voice said:

“Dad. Talon has found its dad. Finally.”

The grin on Talon’s face was unavoidable, the sign of relief and joy on a body so dead and void of movement jarring, and Cass knew that this was a truth none of them could escape. A truth all of them saw, probably because it was staring right into their faces: Bruce had lied to them. He had known Talon before this. And apparently, he was Talon’s _dad._

And even though all of them had suspected it, none of them had wanted to get their suspicions confirmed like this. They’d wanted Bruce to be the bigger man, for him to step up and take the reins back. Instead, Cass could feel the tensions rising. She could feel the anger humming through Dick’s body, the disbelief in Tim’s veins, the horror building in Damian… She could sense her own lines of understanding ready to snap.

But she was not the first one to give in to her feelings. No, that honor belonged to Dick:

“What the fuck, Bruce? What the actual, living fuck? You… You could… I… _Dad_? He- It calls you DAD! _DAD_! I… I should be used to your lying and deceiving self by now, but this takes the cake! Wow! You have a secret Talon clone of me that calls you **DAD**!”

It was an explosion of outrage, Dick’s body rigid, his posture ready to pounce and kill. Only, he couldn’t. He was weakened and hurt and in pain – both in his body and mind. There was none of the elegance hidden in him now, his time as Ric had eaten his reserves, leaving him drained, and thin, and old before his time. It had left him lonely.

But cornered animals were the most vicious – Cass would know – and she saw his plan of going for the jugular long before he could act on it. So, she did it instead:

“Bruce. Talk. Now.”

Words worked better for her on a good day, some part of her actually enjoying them. She and Steph had an entire bookshelf full of audiobooks Cass liked to listen and fantasize to… but in situations like this? Words were the last thing on her mind.

She was angry as well. She had been the silent witness to Bruce’s lies for over a year now and even though she had stood by and let it happen, she had done so because she believed in her dad. She had been sure that he had a plan, a reason, for what he did.

But this Talon had never been part of whatever Bruce had been brewing up in his mind. That much was clear just from looking at him. His face was pale, shock visible in the arch of his eyebrow and the clenched fist of his right hand.

Bruce had been just as blindsided as the rest of them by the words leaving the Talon’s mouth.

And yet that surprise wasn’t enough to quell the ever-building anger in Cass’s veins. Nor did it sooth Dick, or either of the other boys. Cass had watched and listened and looked, while everyone else yelled and fought and left.

And now she wanted answers. She had promised herself that she would change what she could change. And while she might not be able Bruce’s actions, she knew she could knock him back onto the right path. Forcefully, if need be.

For a year she had told herself to wait, to be patient, to trust. Maybe now was the time to stop doing that. If Cass wanted the Dad she loved and remembered back, she would have to be the one who made the first step. It sucked, it shouldn’t be her job, but this family rarely worked like a normal family was supposed to.

Not that Cass had any idea what a normal family really was, since Steph had told her that the parents on TV were just as fake and unrealistic as this weird Bat-Clan of hers was.

Nevertheless, Cass wanted her normal weird back, the normal chaos, the normal spars… Not this wrong way of fighting all of them engaged in now. The one mostly composed of silence and distance, creeping further towards the inevitable explosion. And the explosions were never pretty, always just a culmination of hurt and betrayal and loneliness.

Every single one of them was so lonely all the time. Cass would no longer stand for it. Family meant Ohana, and Ohana meant that nobody got left behind. Her favorite movie had taught her that, after Steph had shown it to her. It had also taught her that sometimes you had to drag them kicking and screaming. And Cass would always be ready to drag Bruce with her; he was her dad after all.

Mere seconds had passed by since she had last spoken, and no one else had dared to open their mouths, after she had compressed all her emotions into three words. Not even Talon, whose gaze danced over all of them, Cass unable to read anything in the dead flesh of this monster wearing a version of her brother’s body.

Not until now. Not until Bruce opened his mouth once again:

“I… This is a complicated topic. One that has many facets you don’t understand and if you would just trust me until I have confirmed the identity of this Talon, everything will be explained. I will inform you as soon as I have the information I need. Some of it is sensitive, but, Dick, I can promise you that I did not clone you. I fear that this might not be a clone or a relative at all.”

“Wow, Bruce, that really cleared it up now, didn’t it?” Tim’s voice was scathing, and Cass couldn’t really blame him.

Bruce had sidestepped the issue entirely. But he had also maneuvered himself into a corner: He had given himself an ultimatum.

That didn’t mean the tension in the Cave eased up, though. Cass almost feared that it had gotten worse.

“Father! I will not stand for this! Who is this… _Talon_? He claims you as his… _dad_! I… I demand answers!”

A few years ago, everyone would have read Damian’s outburst as aggression, as an insult or the demand of a little brat, but now only one person in this room was unable to see the uncertainty coloring each and every word Damian spouted. And that person was undead and had no clear view of the child standing directly next to Dick – almost sitting on his lap really.

In a different situation Cass would have offered up a hug, just to give Damian the chance of remaining prideful by declining it, but this was not a normal situation. This was a slowly escalating train wreck.

“You can’t pull shit like this, Bruce. Not anymore. Maybe not ever. This…”, there was no ounce of sympathy in Tim’s voice, just the tired hues of a young man pushed too hard, too early in his life.

All of them had led lives like that, broken before they ever reached their adolescence.

“Bruce. Why lie?” She had surprised herself by speaking. 

Bruce’s answer on the other hand not surprising at all:

“To protect you. Always. All I did was to protect you.”

The wrong words, at the wrong time, in the presence of the wrong person:

“Protect us? Protect _us_? Shit, Bruce! I am twenty-six! I am a fucking adult! I am… you trying to ‘ _protect_ me’ made me leave the first _and_ the second time… Don’t you ever just _learn_? Can your thick skull be penetrated by the thought that maybe – _maybe_ – telling people what you are ‘ _protecting’_ them from, might be the better option? Because, fuck you, Bruce!”

Cass knew that Dick would be running away, if he wasn’t currently sporting a hole in his side and fear in his heart. She felt like running away herself. Especially since they had finally reached the point of escalation, the point of no return.

“Grayson is right Father!”

“I have had enough of this useless game of lies, Bruce! You have been an ass for an entire year!”

“Stop-“

Her voice was invisible in the crescendo of sound and Cass could feel herself getting lost in the emotions of others, in thoughts that weren’t her own.

“And while we are at it? Where the fuck were you? Why was I alone? And where is _Jason?_ ”

“You haven’t been to any parent-teacher conference in ages, B!”

“You were supposed to help me! Instead you kept secrets!”

The words flying around no longer made any sense, Cass too overstimulated by the sounds crashing into her, by the pure panic and anger and wrath burning her brothers from the inside, to follow their logic, to understand what they were saying at all.

“Stop-“

They didn’t listen. They couldn’t hear. They were just as lost as she was – but where Cass searched for silence, they tried to break free. Little did they know that they crushed her while they were forcing their own wings open.

“You never listen! You are never here! You didn’t know that I was at Jon’s house last week for days, but you somehow know this weird undead assassin!”

“I WAS ALONE! Alone…”

“And not once did you ask: ‘How is it going, Tim?’ But! Oh! Talons! Work! Batman! That always gets your attention…”

“Your secrets have been destroying us for ages now, Bruce”

“STOP!”

This time it wasn’t Cass that begged for silence, it was a voice they were all programmed to listen to: Batman. Even Talon’s gaze was focused on Bruce, his eyes laser sharp, his body battle ready even strapped to a gurney.

Bruce’s chest was heaving, his eyes wide, but there was something made out of pure steel in his voice when he spoke next:

“I will not allow any more discussion on this topic. Until I have confirmed the identity of this Talon, I want all of you to step back and stop asking inane questions. Is that understood?”

Silence. Nodding.

“Tim, get me the readings for magical signatures of the last three days in Gotham and Blüdhaven from the Watchtower. Damian, do your damned homework. Dick, rest or I will make sure Alfred drugs you. And Cass? Your help on patrol will be greatly appreciated.”

“And him?” No fight left, only tiny, tired Tim asking a question, they all had silently wondered about in their heads, his outstretched hand pointing at the Talon in their midst.

“He will be transferred into the meta holding cell, as soon as I have his blood sample.” Bruce’s word was final. Bruce’s word was law. Just as always. But the first stone for change had been thrown. The first defense had fallen.

Cass would tear Bruce’s walls down, even if that meant more pain for all of them.

She would do it – and she would save this family.


	3. Haunting - Bruce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Talon in the cells of the Cave, Bruce is in desperate need for some answers - if only the demons of his past would let him be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!   
> (I know I am one day late :smek:)  
> Thank you guys so much for the responses! I love writing this stories and I love hearing from you!!! You guys are amazing thank you!!! <3<3<3
> 
> Warnings In the End Notes

There was a pane of indestructible glass between them and yet it did nothing to keep the shiver from running down Bruce’s spine as he continued to hold eye contact with Talon.

Yes, his children had been right. He did know Talon.

He had met him before, once, and never forgotten. And, how could he? That week spent away had been the worst week of Bruce’s life. Maybe worse even than the death of his parents. Because while that had been horrible and gruesome and traumatizing, his trip through the universe had been so much more brutal.

Children were supposed to lose their parents one day. But parents weren’t supposed to see their children twisted like that.

Turned into a monster like the one in front of him.

The holding cell was rather bare, just a bed on one side of the room, a toilet and a shower behind a privacy shield on the far end. The whole front was glass, tested against Metas and Superman, and now Talon had taken residence in it, as its newest occupant. He was standing not even three feet away from Bruce, his eyes never leaving Bruce’s. Talon was not even trying to create the illusion of life by taking breaths he didn’t need or fidgeting to keep his muscles loose. Instead he was perfectly still, no movement at all.

From what Bruce could gather, Talon seemed transfixed by the slacks he was wearing, and the casualness of the turtleneck on his body.

Not even 48-hours had gone by since they had gotten Dick’s emergency call. Since they had almost been too late.

(And Bruce should check up on him soon, make sure that Dick had taken his medication – all of them and not only the Vicodin)

Bruce cursed himself for sending Dick away, for making sure the boy kept his distance. But it had seemed like the right choice, like the only choice at the time.

But staring at Talon now, Bruce knew that it had all been for nothing.

He had pushed his family away again and again and again for a goal that had become unachievable the moment Talon fell through a portal and tried to kill Dick.

Bruce just wanted for all of them to be safe. He wanted for his kids to be healthy and happy and protected. Was that too much to ask for? Apparently, it was.

Because now all of them were mad at him. And for a good reason at that.

At the same time, staring into these unblinking golden eyes Talon sported, Bruce couldn’t regret what he had done. He had made a choice months ago, based on the information he had had at hand, and had done his best to stick to it. The goal had been simple: Protect his children. Make sure that he couldn’t become the monster he had found himself capable of being. Make sure that Other Bruce couldn’t hurt the kids.

It seemed as if he had succeeded in all of the tasks but the last one.

The blood tests had come back, and Bruce had known the results before he even looked at the data on the Bat-computer: More electrum than blood, and yet definitely the DNA of Dick Grayson.

Not that there had been any doubt before – the last ounce of hope Bruce had hidden in his heart dispersing the moment, Talon had called him Dad – but now there was nothing standing between the truth and his kids anymore.

Bruce had promised them after all, that he would tell them everything they wanted to know the moment he had confirmed Talon’s identity. It had been the only way to shut them up, to keep the situation under control, and now Bruce could do nothing more than regret that promise while trying to keep it.

Their curiosity and anger had kept them closer than usual, Dick forced to heal up in his old room in the Manor, Damian not even asking if he could spent some time with the Teen Titans, and Tim staying in Gotham, even if that meant cancelling a business trip. Only Duke wasn’t here, keeping watch over Hongkong still, and Bruce would make sure that the boy wouldn’t be dragged into this mess as well.

Cass, even more than the others, had decided to keep an eye on him, following him whenever she could, her intelligent eyes never straying far.

And Bruce could understand why. They wanted answers. He had trained them for this, he had trained them to look for and solve every mystery they could find. He had taught them to be the best a human could possibly be. And then he had pushed them further, until they had reached excellence that should be unattainable, but wasn’t. Not for his kids.

But now that ambition had come back to haunt him. Every one of them was their own hero, their own person, and if they wanted answers, they usually got them.

It didn’t matter that Bruce did all of this out of love, that he wanted to protect them from truths that had almost threatened to destroy him. It didn’t matter that he was so proud of them, that he wanted to cry every time he saw them making a choice Bruce would have struggled over. Every time he saw them being better heroes than he himself could ever hope to be.

The problem had never been that Bruce felt too little, but that he felt _too much_.

The last year had destroyed him. Every part of him had yearned for his children, for their closeness, for their love, and yet Bruce had known that he would have to push them away, if he ever wanted them to be safe.

Looking at Talon, Bruce wondered if they would ever be safe again at all.

And maybe this idea of safeness was a weird one, for a man like him. He was a superhero after all. Each and every single one of his kids fought crime on the daily. Most of them had died wearing a costume, before coming back to put it on once more.

They all fought, and hurt, and suffered, only to fight some more… and yet, the one thing Bruce had never been able to bear was the notion that he could be the person who hurt them. That he was the one at fault for all their pain.

Maybe it was selfish, maybe it was wrong, but Bruce liked to think that their lives had been changed for the better when they met him. He wanted to think that his kids didn’t regret the day Bruce had decided to bring them home.

Bruce was a man capable of sacrifice. It was in his blood, his mind, his training. And if that meant sacrificing the chance to be a great father in order to make sure that he would never be a horrible one, then he would do it.

Hell, he had already done it.

He could still remember coming back from that other universe, a dimension he had now labeled Earth 49311, with the goal of being the best father anyone could ever hope for.

He had been ready to shower them with love. With attention. With care. With the knowledge that he wanted for all of his kids to be happy, that he wanted them to be the best versions of themselves, free from his influence and reign.

And then Tim had made a comment about how Bruce almost sounded like Other Bruce, like his alternative self, when he told them how much he cared. Once again Bruce had been hit by the realization that Other Bruce hadn’t broken these kids via torture, at least not at first, no, he had destroyed them with his love.

Bruce had sworn himself then and there that he would not become the same emotionally abusive bastard that he had been on Earth 49311. That he would never sink down to the levels of Other Bruce by using love and care to twist his children.

Which meant distance.

Which meant letting the fight with Jason escalate, even though Bruce had had a weird feeling from the moment he saw his son shoot the Penguin on LIVE television. It meant drowning in regret and self-loathing the moment Bruce understood Jason’s plan.

It meant doing nothing to clear up the situation. It meant quelling the need to beg for Jason’s forgiveness before it could even become a thought.

When Dick had been shot – Selina leaving him still a thorn in his side – Bruce… Bruce had almost faltered for a moment. He had almost been ready to stop it all, to hug his kids, and curse Other Bruce for making him constantly doubt himself, but then the tides turned once again. Then Dick had woken up without his memories, not recognizing any of them.

It had been laughingly easy to make Ric despise him, and it had been even easier to make his kids stay away as well, only Barbara ignoring Bruce’s orders repeatedly. It had been easy to become a distant father to Damian and barely more than a business associate to Tim. It had been easy to let the distance grow and fester. Too easy, really.

It had been easy to ignore the stares Cass sent in his direction, her eyes seeing it all, her mouth never spilling one of his secrets.

It had taken Bruce less than two months to destroy all the healing and growing and wonderful relationships with his children – he hadn’t even begun to repair the one with Steph – and he had lived with the consequences ever since.

And now here he was, standing in front of the thing he had tried to run away from so desperately, not knowing where else to go.

What if Talon was the first of many? What if Other Bruce had sent him? What if everything Bruce had done to his children and to himself had been for naught?

He was afraid of these answers.

“Why are you here, Talon?”

“Talon wants its Dad. You are Talon’s dad.”

The glass let sound travel, Talon’s voice loud and clear, the cell made for interrogations and to protect from the lingering effects of mind control and poison. It was hard to keep the man in front of him separate from the one sleeping fitfully upstairs, and Bruce could feel their images overlap, could hear Dick’s distant yell of _‘Well, it’s my home as well, B’_ in his ear.

His eyes were focused on all the differences – Dick was older, had a giant scar on the side of his head, his eyes were blue, his skin tan, his smiles full of life – while his mind noticed all the similarities – the shape of Talon’s eyes, the small scar on his upper lip, the dark locks, the face… oh, the face.

It was the face of the boy Bruce had watched growing up. It was the face of his first son, the child that had saved him before Bruce even knew that he needed saving. It was the face that had greeted him every morning at the breakfast table for almost nine years. That had smiled at him, laughed with him, and clung to Bruce’s chest after a horrible nightmare.

It was the face of Bruce’s son and his heart broke once again.

“I am not your father. I am a different Bruce Wayne.”

_‘Pfff! Of course, you are not, old stuff! You are my cool guardian-older brother who lets me fight crime!’_

Talon didn’t answer, didn’t react, but the Dick Grayson that lived in Bruce’s heart did. He could see the grin and the eyeroll of a young Dickie as clear as day, while his mind filled the silence with a memory.

No. Bruce had to concentrate. He had to focus. There were questions he had to ask, answers he had to find to ensure the on-going safety of his family. And the family of this dimension would always come first. It didn’t matter that Talon looked young and fragile, it didn’t matter that Bruce’s heart was fraying from the stress and the fear and the guilt of the last year. It wasn’t allowed to matter. He had his own children to protect – Talon’s wellbeing would have to take a backseat.

But even shaking his head to get his thoughts back in order didn’t help.

His memories were still haunting him. Were always haunting him in moments like these.

Bruce had no time for this:

“Who sent you? What is your plan?”

“Talon wants its Dad. You are Talon’s dad.”

_‘Geez, B, what a way to ask sensitive questions. Be a bit nicer, will you?’_

Bruce didn’t flinch at the glimpse of a young Robin that danced through his peripheral vision. He had grown used to the hauntings of his past mistakes, had grown used to a young Jason Todd standing next to the Red Hood, whenever they clashed with words and weapons.

He could ignore the Dick Grayson of days past as well, could ignore how happy he looked compared to the one sleeping upstairs. To the one staring unflinchingly in Bruce’s eyes right now.

When was the last time either of them had smiled?

“I need answers, Talon. If you want me to help you, I need answers. Who sent you?”

_‘You never learn, do you, Bruce? No one is ever enough for you! Well, fuck you, too!’_

“Talon wants its Dad.”

Bruce’s gaze never wavered, even if his heart clenched as the memory of that final fight that ended with Dick leaving for the first – but not the last – time reverberated in his head. Instead he focused on Talon’s voice, on the way it had quivered for just a moment.

Talon sounded truly sorry, and Bruce had no idea what to do with that.

There was no new information to gain here, no new insight to come by. Talon was a ruthless killer in his own universe, and just because Other Bruce and later the Court had manipulated him into becoming this… this undead killer, didn’t mean that Bruce would be unable to see the deaths Talon had brought upon his own Gotham.

Bruce wanted to help more than anything, his entire body longing for a chance to save Talon. But how could Bruce try to help Talon if he didn’t cover all his own ends first? He was Batman, and Batman always had a plan. Batman never did anything unprepared or without knowing all the variables.

Helping Talon was something he could take care of after he made sure his existing family would survive. After he made sure his own family was safe.

And he could only do that if he knew who his enemy was.

_‘You worry too much, B, you will get wrinkles before you turn thirty if you continue like this’_

Little did ten-year-old Dick know that Bruce had gotten his first wrinkle with twenty-six and had started dyeing his hair black when he was a little over thirty. Little did ten-year-old Dick know that he himself would have grown up beyond his years by the time he was twelve.

“Talon, please… at this point I am not above begging… I need to know who sent you?”

_‘I did it all on my own! Hah, take that, Batman! Robin defeats the Riddler! Wahoo!’_

“Talon wants its Dad back. Talon gets its Dad back.”

This was pointless. Useless. Torture without any success in sight. Talon wouldn’t answer, probably couldn’t answer, his brain dead for over a decade now. And Bruce was just forcing him to repeat himself, hurting himself in the process.

His own head forcing him to live through the memories of happier times didn’t help either, every reminder of the ups and downs he and Dick had had, when they both had been younger, more inexperienced, more free, a rapier through his already bleeding heart.

“This is… I will try again tomorrow. And I hope you talk to me then… I want to help you, I really do, but I can only do that if you help me first.”

“Talon will always follow its Masters. Talon will always follow its Dad.”

_‘Do you always have to push? One day you will push too far Bruce and you will find something you never wanted to see…’_

His abrupt step back echoed through the Cave, Bruce for once not caring to make his steps silent and precise. A slap in the face would have stung less. Hell, a bullet in his chest would have hurt less than the abject horror flooding Bruce’s veins.

Master---

Bruce had done it. He had accidentally acted just like Other Bruce would have, using this… _boy_ for his own gain. How could he claim to protect his own family from the manipulative powers of Other Bruce, when he treated Talon just as badly, just as much like a toy to play with.

Dick, in his last months as Robin, stood by, watching Talon, watching Bruce. He was solid, in a way the memories of his children often were – sometimes feeling more real to Bruce than the actual child in front of him did – and his scowl was one Bruce knew like the back of his hand. Teenage Dick had been angry. He had been so full of life:

 _‘One day I am going to break Bruce… can’t you just back off? Can you just be my dad for once? And not this… this unreachable goal?_ ’

Bruce could still remember his own answer, and it fell from his lips now as well, without him wanting to repeat his own mistakes at all, and yet doing it:

“Don’t be daft, Dick… I just asked you to repeat that training regiment again. If that is too much, then I am not sure if you should be a hero at all.”

He hadn’t meant it. Or he had, actually, in that moment years ago. But they had been constantly fighting back then, constantly riling each other up. And yet, Bruce also remembered the bitter taste on his tongue after he said it, the slow realization that Dick had called him dad and Bruce had told him to suck it up.

The realization had come too late. And when Bruce had finally – _finally_ – accepted that he wanted to be Dick’s father… the bird had already flown the nest. Understandably so.

Talon looked at him, open confusion on a face so unreadable, and said with a voice so cautious Bruce feared it would break:

“Dad?”

And Bruce could no longer take it, his steps loud, his heart racing, as he hurried away from the cell. As he hurried away from a version of his son he couldn’t save.

As he ran away, Dick screaming ‘ _Coward! It is always someone else who has to clean up your mess!_ ’ in his head, Talon got left behind.

Talon alone in yet another coffin.

Talon betrayed by yet another Bruce.

He had not yet slowed down when he reached the staircase that led back into the Manor, back into a space in which the only Dick he had to worry about was currently sleeping, when he almost collided with Alfred. The butler was as put together as always, though Bruce could see the strain of the situation weighing on the older man as well.

Bruce had banned everyone from the Cave when he decided to talk to Talon and yet Alfred was here, one brow already raised in silent judgment of Bruce’s fast approach.

“Alfred? I-“

“Master Timothy has called. He has information regarding our… _guest_. I thought you might appreciate being informed of this development.”

There was steel in Alfred’s gaze and Bruce understood: He would go and talk to Tim, and he would be on his best behavior. Alfred would tolerate nothing less.

It didn’t matter that Bruce could still see Dick in the corner of his eyes, and it didn’t matter that his heart had broken beyond repair once again. Tim deserved his attention – and the case did as well.

Batman would take care of this one, Bruce left reeling on the inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Hallucinations, Mild Panic Attack


	4. Shah Mat - Tim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All Tim had wanted were some answers. Why could it never be so easy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!  
> And welcome back for another amazing chapter of the Mother Dough! This time it is Tim Time!  
> Thanks to my betas! <3  
> And thank you for every nice word you said to me about this story! I love your comments so, so much!!! They mean the world!
> 
> Warnings: Tim's General Depression, Anxiety

Tim had finally reached the coffee shop counter by the time he got off his call with Alfred. The last two days had been hell and he needed something to look forward to before he could stomach Bruce and his lies.

“One venti dark mocha with two shots of espresso, please”

The lady behind the counter smiled when she heard his order and Tim knew why. He was quite the sight to behold with his rumpled business suit, and the long hair in a bun that had more in common with a bird’s nest than an actual hairstyle. The bags under his eyes most certainly didn’t help.

“Your name, Mister?”

It was an easy question. One Tim got every time he stepped into one of his top five coffee shops in Gotham and yet it was one that held a lot more weight than most people would attribute to it. Tim was Tim, of course. But he was also a Drake. He was also a Wayne. Even if he had barley felt like either in those last few months.

“Um… Tim. Tim is fine.”

“Thank you! That makes 5.45$, please!”

Tim gave her the money, moving towards the other end of the counter to wait for his order. He was weirdly thrown by the inconspicuous question… Over the last year or so he had started to doubt his place in the family more and more. On some days he wasn’t sure anymore if he was a Wayne at all. But what was he if he couldn’t claim the name of his mentor and father?

Because he sure as hell was no longer a real Drake. That boat had sailed when Tim had okay-ed the sale of Drake Industries. His mother must have turned in her grave.

“A Venti Mocha for Tim!”

The loud voice startled him, and when he looked up, Tim was greeted by the smiling face of the barista. Tim was glad for the interruption, his thoughts had been heading into a dark direction, and he couldn’t allow himself to sink down into _those_ depths of his psyche if he wanted to be able to handle Bruce.

“Thanks.”

“And maybe get some sleep, Tim, will ya!”

Her wink was cute and for a moment Tim played with the idea of flirting back, of being carefree and offering her his number and a coffee date. But then Stephanie flashed before his eyes. Kon. Tam. Lonnie. Cassie. Nah, it was probably better for everyone involved if Tim stayed far away from her. And from dating.

“I will certainly try. Bye!”

He felt watched when he left the coffee shop behind, the mocha in his hand suddenly not as warm anymore. Not as appealing.

Well, this day was already going great.

It was Alfred who opened the Manor doors when Tim arrived half an hour later, just as it had been Alfred who had taken his call.

The butler seemed tired and old – and well, that was something Tim could definitely relate to.

“Hi, Alfie.”

“Master Timothy, it is good to see you. Master Bruce is waiting for you in the study. I prepared a late breakfast for the both of you, since I am assuming that you didn’t grace your body with some nutrients either.”

There was something warm hidden in the chiding tone Alfred greeted him with, and Tim instantly felt more at home than he had in ages. Alfred always managed to do that. The butler (grandfather?) offered a smile and a pat on the shoulder, some advice or a bit of biting sarcasm and suddenly Tim would feel accepted and warm in a way he never had in the Drake Estate. 

Tim should really visit the Manor more often outside of the cowl.

That feeling only intensified when Alfred pulled him into a quick hug, the old man overcoming his Britishness just this once, to tell Tim that he had missed him, before sending him on his way.

It was the first hug Tim had gotten since Ric happened.

The hallways of the Manor were silent when Tim made his way to the study, and for a few moments Tim traveled back in time.

His first few months being Robin had been like this: silent and full of ghosts. Tim had not yet lived in the Manor; he had only been a visitor in the shrine of Jason Todd. The halls had always been silent back then, the air always stuffy, Bruce always closed off and mean.

And then Tim had managed to create a connection. And then Tim had managed to become a son instead of a replacement, had managed to be loved instead of just being used. Not that Tim had minded that back then – the feeling of actually being useful one of the best things he had ever felt in his young years.

But he no longer lived in that time – and nothing made that more apparent than the hints of the present Tim started to notice.

There were scratches on the floor that came from Titus’s claws, and a covered-up hole in one of the walls that Tim knew had been Cass’s fault but couldn’t prove it. He spotted the empty pillar that had once displayed an expensive vase up until Dick misjudged the landing of one of his twists and crushed it into a million pieces.

The halls were silent because Damian was at school, Dick was resting (hopefully), and Cass never made a noise if she didn’t want to.

Tim hadn’t traveled back in time and yet the past continued to haunt him.

The study door was open when Tim finally reached it, the walk draining the last bit of energy the mocha might have given him. He was too tired for this. Too spent. He probably should have slept at some point in the last few days.

His first impulse had been to send Bruce the information directly to the Bat-computer, just like he normally did it, and right about now Tim really cursed his own curiosity and need for answers.

This could have been a morning spent in bed with his laptop and some WE files, but, no, Tim had wanted some answers. Which meant facing Bruce one-on-one. Which meant risking talking to the man who was supposed to be his father but hadn’t acted like it in a year.

Bruce was staring out of the window onto the Manor grounds when Tim stepped inside the room. The man looked troubled, and for a moment Tim wanted to care. But then he remembered the harsh voice in the Cave ordering him to do busy work.

Tim would need an apology before he was ready to feel sorry again, before he would allow Bruce access to his heart again; walls growing stronger with each day Tim remained alone.

“Bruce?”

Bruce turned around, his eyes finding Tim instantly; Tim realized that the man truly hadn’t heard him enter. That Bruce wasn’t ignoring him, or acting cool, but that he had been so lost in thought that the muffled steps of his son on the carpet hadn’t been enough to inform him of Tim’s presence. Well, that had to be a first for Batman.

“Oh, Tim. Please sit down. Alfred made us breakfast.”

Yeah, Tim could see that – Tim knew that, Alfred telling him so only minutes earlier – but Bruce’s behavior once again told him something else: That Bruce wasn’t on top of his game either. Tim didn’t yet know if that would make the following conversation easier… or so much worse.

They took their places at the desk – Bruce on his side, Tim on the opposing one, the side guests were placed on. Alfred had prepared a spread of jams and marmalades, and freshly baked scones to go with them and yet Tim’s stomach rebelled as he took in the delicious sight in front of him.

Tim had never been able to enjoy food when he was nervous.

The silence began to feel stifling, Bruce not touching the offered food either. Well, this was a mess. And yet one of them had to break the silence first and for once in his life it wasn’t Tim that caved, it was Bruce:

“Alfred told me you wanted to speak to me about this in person?”

“Um… yeah.”

Silence. Once again.

Their eyes met across the table and Tim could see the questions Bruce wanted to ask but didn’t. Right, this time it was on Tim to speak up. He was the one with the data after all, he was the one who had wanted to talk.

“So, yeah, you send me to check the magical signatures above Blüdhaven and I did… but I also checked for gamma- and T-radiation across both cities just to be safe and…”

“And?”

Tim didn’t miss the urgency in Bruce’s voice, and he couldn’t quell the twinge of annoyance he felt hearing it. He knew that this was important for Bruce. The Court of Owls was a problem that had occupied the Bats for years now, their efforts to get one of them – but mostly Dick – to become their Talon, annoying at best but downright life-threatening at the worst of times.

But at the same time Tim just wanted to feel like he was being listened to, and Bruce’s obvious interest in the data – but not in him – hurt.

He was a genius. He was Red Robin. He just wanted for his Dad to listen to him, before Bruce started up that giant brain of his and vanished into the fold of ideas, plans, and conspiracies once again. Tim just wanted to be the priority for once – and if it was only for a couple of minutes.

But that was apparently already too much to ask for, Bruce’s stare becoming more piercing with every second Tim was lost in thought:

“And.”

It wasn’t as question this time, and Tim’s brain kicked into report gear, answering before Tim had a chance to be petty and silent:

“And I found traces of T-radiation centered around Dick’s apartment building. By the time I searched for it the radiation had almost completely dispersed, but the trace elements were enough to increase the possibility of a multiverse crossover by a tenfold.”

“But that is not what you came here to say, is it?”

It wasn’t. Bruce was right about that. Even if his mistake had been what had lured Tim to the Manor:

“You were wrong. Ignoring the fact that you obviously knew that the Talon isn’t from our Earth, you thought it was magic. It’s not magic. The Talon came here via a T-radiation powered multiverse portal. You thought it was magic, but it’s technology.”

The late breakfast stood between the two of them like a divine, splitting the room into Tim’s side and Bruce’s side. And why wouldn’t it? Tim had just made his move. And he still had an ace up his sleeve. But before he could offer it up, Bruce would be forced to react. To show his cards and to reveal what he was willing to give:

“And now you are wondering why I thought it was magic, are you?”

“No. Give me more credit than that, Bruce. I am second only to you when it comes to detective work and even then, it has been a few years since we went toe-on-toe. I know why you thought it was magic.”

“Oh?”

This was not what Tim had had planned when he decided to confront Bruce. He had counted on them being in the Cave, he had counted on them being Red Robin and Batman while it happened. Because if it was Red Robin confronting Batman, then Tim would still know that Bruce and he were okay. That Bruce and he were still father and son.

But now they were sitting in Bruce’s study, both of them dressed as civilians, both of them playing this conversation like a game of chess, just this time each knight represented their feelings, and each hit would hurt.

“You thought it was magic, because that had been the case the last time you traveled through the multiverse. And you recognized the Talon. From the moment you laid your eyes on him, you knew exactly what was going on. Only you were wrong. Only this time it isn’t magic. Only this time there is something else at play. So, why lie, Bruce?”

Tim had felt like this before, once, when he had faced off against Ra’s al Ghul, knowing that it could cost him everything he had left. He had been playing with fire back then and he was playing with it now.

Bruce’s face didn’t change, didn’t flinch the entire time Tim had talked, the mask of Bruce Wayne just as firmly in place as the cowl was on Batman. The only difference was, that Batman never sounded this soft, this old, when he spoke:

“I said it back in the Cave, and I will say it once more: To protect you. To protect all of you, Tim.”

Tim didn’t have the same knee-jerk reaction to the word protect that Jason and Dick had, but his stomach still dropped when he heard it. Protection was something for the weak, for the un-trusted. For those not strong enough to know about and face the danger.

Tim had faced too many demons in his life to still need protection, to still be considered weak.

It was time for the killing blow, it was time to slay Bruce’s king:

“Cut the bullshit. I know that the Talon comes from the same universe you traveled to. I know that you know it as well. And that you probably already ran all possible blood and DNA tests by now to confirm it. You promised us the truth – _you promised me_ – so why continue lying?”

“Because the truth is something so horrible, Tim, I don’t think anyone should be forced the bear it.”

“So, you just shoulder it alone? So, you just continue to suffer in silence? We are your partners, Bruce. Most of us have been your partners longer than we have been your kids. _Batman needs a Robin_. That’s something you should never forget.”

_Shah mat - Checkmate_

“Don’t you understand? **I hurt you**!”

Bruce’s hand hit the table with a bang so loud, Tim could feel it reverberate in his bones. The freshly baked scones went flying, and in his shock the only thing Tim could do was watch as the jam and the marmalade became one on the carpet decorating the study floor.

This act of senseless violence against the study desk Bruce had inherited from his father shocked both of them into silence.

Tim had been so… strong the entire time he had spoken to Bruce. He had shown his witty side, his business side, his Timothy Drake-Wayne, heir of two empires, side… but somehow this one sound, this echo of skin hitting wood, had thrown him. Tears were prickling behind his eyes, his breathing quickened, sweat covering the palms of his hands.

He was having a panic reaction.

He went out every night to fight crime, had done so for years, but Bruce hitting a desk was too much. Apparently, that was all it took to break him.

“Sorry… I am so sorry, Tim, I…”

Tim had only heard Bruce beg a couple of times in his life, and every time it had happened Tim had wished to never hear it ever again. Because Bruce only begged if everything else had failed. If one of them was in danger and Bruce had no weapons left besides the love of a parent and the willingness to give up on even his pride to save his child.

But now he was begging… begging for what exactly? Tim just wanted answers.

Tim just wanted love and care and to be a part of this family again.

Tim just wanted answers:

“Please, just be honest with me, Bruce”

His own voice surprised him. How soft he sounded. How tired. What surprised him even more, however, was the fact that Bruce answered, the same heaviness that had colored the broken begging, still weighting his words down:

“I… I traveled the multiverse back then, and I met a different version of this family. Only, that Alternate Me, or Other Bruce, as I like to call him, wasn’t the same kind of father I was. The same kind of Batman I try to be.”

“Yeah, we noticed. He was way more affectionate.”

Tim didn’t know what had possessed him to make that comment, besides the fact that he knew that it would hurt Bruce. But nothing had prepared him for the look of utter desolation that shadowed Bruce’s face, when he heard Tim’s words.

At one point in this conversation, Tim had won their game of chess, Bruce’s king had fallen and with it, Bruce’s mask had crumbled into nothing.

But Tim didn’t live in a world made out of illusions – at least not most of the time – he knew that something must have happened to destabilize Bruce before this disastrous breakfast had even begun, for the man to lose this easily. For the giant to fall this fast. This far.

“He really was, wasn’t he? Other Bruce, I mean… He… Talon is the Dick Grayson of Other Bruce’s world. He isn’t just a look-a-like or a distant relative, he is THE Dick Grayson. And it is Other Bruce’s fault. He is the person who broke and loved and hurt and twisted Dick until… until only Talon was left.”

“What?”

Tim remembered the week… _Other Bruce_ had visited the Manor. He remembered how often that Bruce had smiled, how easily he had shown them love or given them praise. Hell, Other Bruce had even gotten along with Jason, the two of them going on patrol together at least twice.

Just Cass had been watching Other Bruce with a critical eye – only she had seen something the rest of them had overlooked.

But still… Tim couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing right now. What Bruce wanted him to understand.

“This other version of me, Tim, he had taken every single one of you and… and created a _monster_ using your love for him. He… he did horrible, horrible things… but he never lost reason, he never tainted the Batman suit. They all thought he was a hero! He is a member of the Justice League! He did… he hurt you, and I knew why he did it…”

“Bruce…”

“Because I thought about it as well. Hell, when I sent Dick into Spyral I was no better than Other Bruce and the horrors he brought upon you!”

“Bruce… stop…”

“I hurt you! This version of Me, a version I recognized as my own darkest thoughts, it HURT YOU! And you want me to… to what? To show you what that horror looks like? To tell you how much you hurt? How horrible it all was? How the only thing I can constantly think about is protecting you from **MYSELF**?”

“I SAID STOP IT, BRUCE!”

Tim’s chest was heaving, his own voice being the one that broke the chains keeping them both in place. Alfred must have heard them, but Tim couldn’t find it in him to care. His mind was reeling, his eyes desperately trying to keep away from Bruce. Because what if he accidentally made eye contact? What if he was forced to listen to even more truths Bruce liked to spit like insults?

Tim had come here to find out why Bruce lied. Why he locked them out. Why he had been an ass for over a year now. But instead he found this:

A man so desperate to justify his own guilt and horror that he’d let it eat him from the inside out.

Tim pushed his chair back without a word, gaze landing on the breakfast Alfred had prepared for them. The mess they’d made on the floor with food created for the sake of bringing them together. The jam slowly drying into the carpet, scones scattered, it felt like an apt image of their relationship, Tim thought. They were inedible now, but initially baked with good intentions and hope.

He was tired. His eyes heavy, his soul drained, all he wanted was for this mess to be over. He couldn’t deal with Alfred right now, couldn’t deal with well-meaning words and hopeful smiles being crushed, when the Butler inevitably noticed the mess they made.

So instead, Tim took the ~~coward's~~ Bat's way out: He pushed past Bruce, ignoring how silent the man was, ignoring how tense his shoulders were, or how even the tension still couldn’t hide the tremor running through them, and made his way towards the grandfather clock that would lead him into the Cave.

Before he could leave, he turned around one last time and said:

“Maybe Bruce… maybe this isn’t just about you. Maybe it’s about all of us instead. About Dick and Cass and Jason and Damian and… _and me_. Maybe it’s time to get over your fucking guilt complex and treat us like the capable heroes we are. That’s just an idea, though, and you are probably going to ignore it, so… bye. And don’t expect me to come for Sunday brunch.”

His steps felt heavy when he made his way down the stairs into the Cave.

He still remembered the suppressed joy of the first time he had ever been allowed access to this beauty. It hadn’t been a happy circumstance, Dick and Bruce in grave danger, but a sense of belonging had filled him then, a sense of home and purpose and power… A wholesomeness Tim had craved ever since.

The Cave in front of him was cold. Empty. Dark.

Except that it really wasn’t, was it? The holding cells were illuminated, and Tim could hear the soft tapping sound of a person walking in circle after circle after circle since they had nothing else to do. The Talon. It was still here. Of course, it was.

Its presence was something Tim hadn’t allowed himself to forget for the past two days.

Originally, he had only planned on taking one of his Red Birds back into the city before Alfred could find him and force Bruce to apologize, but now his feet were carrying him away from the garage and towards the light.

The Talon spotted him the moment Tim came into view – Tim remembered reading something about heightened senses in his files about the Court of Owls. A shiver ran down Tim’s spine, when eyes that reminded him so much of his brother’s and were yet so different from them, fixated on him.

“Um… Hi?”

At first the Talon didn’t react, and Tim was ready to turn around, all of this quite obviously a fluke, when suddenly a voice rough beyond its years, called out:

“JJ?”

“JJ?”, Tim echoed back.

“JJ! Joker kid! Tim is here! Talon found its dad! JJ! It found Dad! It found its Master!”

Talon’s voice was no longer something you could overhear, the sing-song getting shriller and louder with each time the Talon repeated ‘JJ’. Tim’s hands found his ears, trying to protect himself from the horrible sound that left the Talon’s mouth, trying to protect him from the horrible truth Talon spewed: Talon had recognized Tim, and he had recognized him as JJ – or Joker Junior.

So, Bruce had still hidden some things, then. Not even the slightly crazed… the slightly broken version of Tim’s dad had dared to utter this truth.

Maybe it was truly time that Tim left. He couldn’t take any more of this. He shouldn’t have to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Hi at the end:   
> Since I will be doing Whumptober Updates of the Mother Dough will be on hold up until the middle of November - but don't worry this story isn't over by a long shot!


	5. Turning Around - Dick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick tried his best to not let his thoughts wander as his fingers combed through the unruly mess Damian called a hairstyle. The boy was worse than Tim when it came to getting a haircut, but Dick kind of liked it. It certainly felt nice, the sensation of silky locks beneath his fingertips grounding him in his body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome to another chapter of this story!  
> Sorry for the long delay, I wanted to have this ready last week - but uni and my depression fucked me over, so now here we are!  
> I really hope you guys enjoy this - Dick finally gets a hug (and some other stuff)
> 
> Warning for a Blink And You Miss It Reference to Nightwing #93 and some suicidal thoughts from Dick - nothing explicit tho.
> 
> Kudos, Comments and Bookmarks make me SUPER DUPER HAPPY! <3

It was once again his childhood bedroom that greeted him when he slowly blinked his eyes open. There was something warm pressed against Dick’s side, something that anchored him in the present, keeping his mind from floating away.

One glance down told him that it was Damian who kept Dick in his place.

The boy had taken to sneaking into Dick’s room late at night after patrol, when Dick was already fast asleep, to cuddle with his older brother. Damian knew that he wouldn’t have to fear ridicule from Dick, but he probably wanted to make sure that neither Cass nor Tim (nor Bruce) would be able to use this sign of “weakness” against him.

Well, Dick would be the last person to complain about his Baby Bat wanting to spend time with him. About another person offering closeness and touch.

God… Dick was touch-starved, and this week spend at home in the Manor had shown him just how much he had missed casual touch. How much he had missed cuddling and play-fighting, and wrestling over the TV remote.

Not that he had gotten all that much casual closeness this way… He had mostly been confined to his room, stab wounds to the side that barely missed your heart apparently being something that required bed rest to heal.

But Dick was growing antsy, his feet not the part of him that hurt. No, it was his chest that burned – both physically and emotionally.

Before Dick could even think about setting things in motion though, Dami sighed, his small, vulnerable face pressed deep into the fabric of Dick’s shirt.

Dick had missed this. He had missed this tiny gremlin snoring softly next to him, and he had missed the closeness of another person. He had missed being asked how his day had been and he had missed feeling like a human.

He had missed being Dick Grayson.

It just sucked that he still didn’t know who that person really was. Or had been.

Yes, he no longer was Ric, but… the memories he had gotten back didn’t negate what he had felt as Ric, what he had experienced as this man that had been so lonely he chose his car as a home. And not all memories had come back – at least not in prime condition. Many things in Dick’s life were still a mystery to him, scrambled and hidden behind migraines Dick feared to trigger.

But he knew a few things: he knew that he loved Damian like a son, even if he had never told anyone about that, he knew that he loved Cass and Tim and Jason as his brothers and sister, sometimes with more ferocity than his heart could take. He knew that Bruce was his dad, even if they never talked about it… he knew that he was hurt because he craved their love but somehow didn’t manage to ever get enough of it.

It was like a black hole in his stomach, eating and craving affection, only for Dick to be unable to ever feel full.

Cuddling in bed with his Baby Bat came pretty close though.

Dick tried his best to not let his thoughts wander as his fingers combed through the unruly mess Damian called a hairstyle. The boy was worse than Tim when it came to getting a haircut, but Dick kind of liked it. It certainly felt nice, the sensation of silky locks beneath his fingertips grounding him in his body.

Getting lost in his head was one of these things Dick had had to learn how to deal with. Apparently one possible side effect of getting fucking shot in the head was a decline in attention span. You know, next to some form of epilepsy and horrible migraines.

And losing your memory because a damn cult of murder Owls wanted to manipulate you into killing your friends and family, of course. But Dick had the slight suspicion that this side effect only applied to him.

But ever since then Dick tried a couple of grounding exercises to make sure he didn’t lose time, didn’t just wake up in a place he couldn’t remember falling asleep in. It was hard to fight for control when it was your own brain that was faulty, that was failing at the most basic of things.

Touch helped. Of course, it did – he was still Dick Grayson, master cuddler extraordinaire. As did uncomfortable heat or cold. Ice cubes were a favorite tool to help center himself, as touch was not something Dick got all that often in Blüdhaven. Except when he beat up some crooks. It was probably a bad sign if the most touch you got was during fist fights, but what was Dick supposed to do?

Everything had fallen apart over the last year.

Their family maybe most of all.

Jason was no longer talking to anyone, as far as Dick could tell, and Tim had thrown himself into WE and their R&D department with a passion that left little space for friends or family. Cass was here but… for some reason neither she nor Damian had visited Dick in Blüdhaven ever since he had gotten his memories back.

And Dick didn’t even want to think about Bruce.

The man was even more closed off than Dick could ever remember him being. Some part of Dick was honestly surprised when Bruce ordered him to stay at the Manor until he could safely move again on his own. Which was bullshit. Bruce was his _dad_ , and yet… and yet Dick couldn’t forget how Bruce had treated Ric, how he made sure Ric would run away without ever chasing him.

Why was Dick different from Ric? Why was he allowed to stay now, but had been left for the wolves before?

Dick had no answers. He only had a wary feeling in his bones that told him there were secrets being kept, secrets Dick wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

Which reminded him of the giant elephant in the room, of course. Or more accurately: of the Talon in the Cave.

Bruce had issued a statement earlier that week, during a time Dick had still been more painkillers than human, about their guest in the holding cell. It would be a lie to say that Dick was happy with the contents of said statement.

(And their family truly had to be the only family on the East Coast that communicated via a family intern e-mail server and a memo network – it would at least explain some of their issues, if you asked Dick)

He had been furious. Hurt. Upset. And he couldn’t even really explain why.

So, Talon was Dick. Or _a Dick_ , to be more accurate. And he came from a different dimension Bruce had traveled to before – Dick could very vaguely recall something like that, yeah – to find its dad. A truly touching story.

If only Dick could stifle the part of himself that spewed acid, that burned with questions and hate and pain. Because why did Talon get to have a dad, why did Talon get to have Bruce, but Ric had been sent away?

Dick wasn’t stupid. He was far from it, actually, and maybe that was why he wasn’t deluding himself: Bruce already cared for the Talon. That much had been obvious from the short memo, from the prolonged stay of their guest, from the tense energy inside the Manor walls.

And it was unfair.

But life was rarely fair – he had learned that at the tender age of nine.

Next to him Damian moved in his sleep and Dick forcefully returned to the present, not entirely sure how long he had been staring at the wall, his hand buried in Damian’s hair. One glance at the alarm on his bedside table told him it was almost lunch time.

His stomach told him the same.

It was rare for Damian to sleep this long, but the last week must have been stressful for his Baby Bat as well. Normally Damian liked to spend his weekends hiking or going on adventures with his friends, but now here he was, cuddling with Dick, as if he feared the man would vanish again the moment he let go.

And Dick wasn’t even sure if hiking was still one of Damian’s hobbies. They hadn’t really talked in… in half an eternity. Not even the last week had been able to change that. Dami vanished from Dick’s room before they could talk most days, claiming school as the reason. But Dick had a pair of functioning eyes, and he saw how uncomfortable Damian grew in his presence the moment he woke up.

But even the heartbreak of Damian leaving each morning wasn’t enough for Dick not to crave the cuddles that reminded him so much of a time where both of them had been… whole.

So, Dick would enjoy this. He would ignore the budding headache, and the hunger gnawing on his insides, and the urge to use a bathroom, and the weird anger at Bruce and at Talon… he would ignore all of that, for a moment more of this.

Which was why, of course, Damian chose this second to wake up on his own.

“Morning, Dami”

“Hn….”

Damian always looked vulnerable when he woke up, his muscles relaxed, a frown not yet installed on his features. He looked like the child he was, and Dick ached for the childhood Damian never had a chance to enjoy.

Talia had tried her best, Dick knew that, and he knew that Damian’s childhood could have been so much worse, if his mother hadn’t cared for him… and yet, all Dick wanted was for Dami to be carefree like an ordinary child would. To laugh without fearing betrayal, to cry without awaiting damnation.

But it was too late for that now, wasn’t it?

“Rich- Grayson. Good Morning.”

It never took long for Dami to go from sleeping to painfully awake. The boy sat up, before Dick could answer, urgency in his every movement. And yet, he was still cautious as hell. Dick saw the way in which Damian moved, saw how Dami tried not to startle Dick’s hurt side even as he tried to escape the bed as fast as possible.

“It is almost lunch time, but yeah… I hope you slept well?”

Dick wanted for Damian to stay, wanted for them to have a conversation and talk, but he could already see the glances Dami send in the direction of the door.

“My rest was adequate. Do not worry about me.”

He hadn’t. He hadn’t worried for Damian. Dick knew when the boy had a bad dream. They had spent over a year together as Batman and Robin – as father and son – in which Dick had learned to read the moods of the kid, his quirks and ticks and peculiarities. He knew how Damian looked when he had a nightmare, and he knew how the boy behaved when all he wanted was a hug.

But that had been before.

Before Dick died for the first time and came back too late. Before Dick “died” for the second time and Damian was left with Ric. Before Dick had gotten his memories back, but not all of them. Not enough of them for Damian.

Now Dick was _Grayson_ again, instead of _Richard_. Now Damian only allowed himself the closeness of his Batman, when said man was asleep.

“Well, I had a good night’s sleep, thank you for asking. Good enough to be able to drive back home later today. I think, I spent enough time hanging around in my old bedroom being useless, don’t you agree?”

What was his goal? To hear someone say: “No! Please stay!” or “You aren’t useless!”? To keep Damian in his room? To get a response, just any kind of answer? A sign of love and care and worry?

Well, he got neither of it, as Damian answered, the surprise flickering over his face gone before Dick could even begin to decipher it:

“If Father clears you and Pennyworth decides that your wound has healed enough, you should be free to go. And now excuse me, Titus needs a walk.”

With that, Damian was gone, Dick left behind in his childhood bedroom. His side burned with passion, Dick more than overdue for his next round of pain meds, and his head was trying to kill him. But the worst pain was the feeling of being left behind once more.

Damian had left, and somehow Dick was sure that it was his own fault.

Getting out of bed and facing the day seemed more daunting with each minute Dick stared at the door. Maybe he didn’t need lunch after all. Maybe all he needed was his meds and another nap. Maybe that would be enough to forget the pain.

He was utterly alone when he turned around once more, sleep more than ready to drag him down, helped by the chemical cocktail surging through his veins.

Dick had only stepped down into the Cave because he wanted to grab his Nightwing gear before he took one of Bruce’s cars back to Blüdhaven. If he got lucky, Alfred had already repaired it sometime in the last week and Dick wouldn’t have to do it himself.

He made sure that he would be the only one down here, Alfred currently cooking curry for dinner by the smell of it, and Damian somewhere on the Manor grounds with his giant of a dog. Cass had ballet on Saturdays and Tim tried to avoid the Manor to spend his weekends alone, besides the mandatory Sunday Evening Family Dinners, of course. Bruce… Dick wasn’t sure where exactly Bruce was, the man in question making himself sparse ever since the Talon had appeared, but Dick had heard him leave the house earlier, after he woke up from his nap.

He hadn’t talked to Bruce since the night they found him in his apartment. And back then Dick had been high on painkillers and blood loss and now he could barely recall what had been said and done.

Which was probably why the Talon had slipped from his mind.

Well, now his lapse of attention was staring right at him.

It was still unnerving to see the Talon and know that it was him. Maybe it was even more unnerving now, since the first time they had met, Dick hadn’t had the knowledge yet, that Talon truly _was_ Dick Grayson. Talon had just been _a_ Talon, who looked a lot like Dick. But that was no longer the case. No, now the familiar eyes staring back at him were painfully obviously his.

Plus, the lighting in his apartment had been shit.

The same couldn’t be said for the Cave.

Dick could see every wrinkle and every scar on the Talon’s body through the glass wall of the holding cell, illuminated by the strong overhead lamps Bruce had installed ages ago. Not that there were all too many wrinkles visible. He had stopped aging at the tender age of eighteen after all.

Scars, on the other hand, were plenty enough.

Someone – probably Alfred or Cass – had given new clothes to the Talon, and the dark sweatpants and hoodie made it impossible to tell just how much of the body was covered in scars. A lot, Dick would say if he had to bet. All of their bodies were a map of past pain and badly healed wounds, and Dick wasn’t dumb enough to think, that Talon had had an easy life before he became un-dead.

The Court of Owls knew that you had to break a person first before you could twist them.

At least the Court of Owls of his dimension did. And Dick would bet that that was a universal constant. At least as far as Talons went.

The longer Dick stared – the longer Talon stared back – the more obvious it became that Talon and Dick were the same person; just two different versions of one. There was only one distinction that Dick couldn’t let go of – not the difference in skin tone, or eye color, or age – and that was the scar on the side of his head.

Dick had been Talon, had given himself to the Court of Owls in this dimension as well, but Talon had never been Ric Grayson. Had never taken a bullet to the brain and lost it all, without truly losing it.

Maybe Dick should just stop comparing himself to an evil un-dead version of himself from an earth Bruce was still unwilling to talk about.

He should just go and get his suit, leave before Alfred could guilt him into eating with them.

One week of bedrest had made sure that Dick was craving the streets and the danger like an addict craved his next fix. He needed to get out again, he needed to fly again. He needed something to distract him from the black hole inside of him, slowly eating away on his soul.

“You are Talon. Dad’s Talon.”

The Talon had spoken.

“What?”

Talons didn’t just speak. They answered when ordered, but they never took initiative. They were tools, not here to start a conversation. And yet… and yet this Talon spoke. Apparently, Dick couldn’t shut up no matter the dimension:

“You are Talon. Dad’s Talon.”

“I… I am no one’s Talon. I am Dick Grayson. You are as well.”

Dick didn’t know what possessed him to say that. He didn’t want Talon to be him. He didn’t want this imposer in his family, taking all the attention Ric hadn’t gotten when he needed it, but… at the same time… what was he supposed to do? Let another version of himself suffer through the perils of a lost identity, due to a scenario in which Dick had managed to be envious of himself. No. That was not who he was.

He was better than this.

He wanted to be better than this.

“Talon is… Talon”

Talon had shifted in his stance, his eyes becoming wary. He was afraid. Of what? Dick had no idea.

“No, you are more than just a Talon. You are… you are Dick, _Richard_ , a person.”

Maybe if Dick managed to convince Talon of his humanity, Dick himself would feel more like a person again as well.

Because Dick Grayson was drifting, had been for a while now, but maybe he could save someone else from drowning, maybe there would be room for two on the wooden door keeping them afloat.

“Talon is Talon. You are Dad’s Talon. Talon was Court of Owl’s Talon… now Talon is its own Talon. But it wants its Dad.”

Dick had never heard a Talon speak this much, and by the exhausted gleam in Talon’s eyes, the guy himself hadn’t been prepared for the amount of words that escaped him either. And in a twisted way it made sense what the Talon had said: Dick was Bruce’s toy soldier, even if he had more freedom and more of a brain than Talon, and it would only be logical for an abused being like this to search for something that would give him safety and love.

The only thing that truly made no sense at all, was the question how Talon had found out about them.

Because wanting someone to take the pain away was one thing, traveling into an entirely different dimension to get it - another. Dick would know about it, he was still firmly stuck in the first one after all, and yet he hadn’t taken to traversing the multiverse, hadn’t even thought about it.

“Why me? Why my… _dad_? Wasn’t there another world you could travel to? Another Bruce Wayne you could attack with your… your knives and love?”

Calling it love felt wrong, but what else was Dick supposed to call it? Obsession? Well, yeah, that would work actually. Because someone would have to be actively obsessed with Bruce to go to such lengths just to see him again.

Dick would know. That was how Tim had come into their family after all. And how Tim had made sure that Bruce would return after he ‘died’.

The Talon didn’t seem to agree with him however, shaking his head in a childishly exaggerated manner while Dick spoke.

“No! No! Talon needs this Dad. Talon wants this Dad! It is Talon’s dad! This one!”

Dick had noticed how eerily silent Talon had been – first in his apartment that fateful night a week ago and then the moment he had walked into the Cave seeing Talon just standing there. And now he saw how Talon looked when he stopped being silent:

Talon’s movements were frantic, his steps still noiseless, but his body vibrating with energy. With despair.

His voice reverberated in the Cave and for a moment Dick feared that this would be it, that Alfred or Bruce or Cass would come down and stop Dick’s plan of vanishing back to Blüdhaven before he had ever reached a car. But, no, all of them were busy. Dick had made sure of that.

“Calm down! It’s okay! Please… it’s alright. Okay… everything will be okay…”

Dick raised his hands in a gesture of peace, deliberately showing Talon that he had no weapons, that he was harmless. The hole in Dick’s side certainly wouldn’t help him fight should it come to that. But Dick wasn’t even sure if Talon could remember hurting him, if Talon knew that Dick would be unable to remain victorious a second time.

And why would there be a fight? There was a glass panel between them.

His words did little to calm Talon’s ruffled feathers, the yelling slowly bleeding into a disjointed mutter that send shivers down Dick’s spine:

“Talon is Talon. Talon needs its Dad. Talon needs _this_ Dad. Talon only belongs to Talon. Talon wants a Dad. This one. **This one**! Talon needs a Master. Talon needs its Dad. Talon belongs ONLY to Talon.”

Talon himself didn’t seem to know what he wanted, his steps changing direction with every new statement, with every new claim of ownership.

And Dick’s heart broke a little. Or a lot.

Because he knew how Talon felt. Or at least he could imagine just how deep the hurt ran. Because Dick felt like that too. Dick had always been an independent person, his parents trusting him with his own body and his own safety the first time they had let him walk a tightrope, Bruce trusting him to protect himself when the circus trailer became Wayne Manor and Dick became Robin.

And yet Dick had always craved more. Had felt every rule like a lock on his golden cage, every ‘Please stay’ like a chain dragging him down. He had run away from the confinements of a stationary life again and again and again and yet he never managed to run far enough. He never managed to escape the truth of his life:

People liked to use him.

Be it Slade, or Bruce, or Brother Blood, or Tarantula, or Spyral, or… or the Court of Owls. People looked at him and saw a tool, a piece of ass to control and own.

And he was getting sick of it. His independence was something so inherently him, that every attempt to destroy it or to seal it away, felt like an attempt to break what it meant to be Dick Grayson. Even as Ric the one thing that he had understood, the one thing Ric had known about Dick Grayson, had been the fact that independence was the goal he always strived for.

Looking at Talon as he buried his hands in his hair, ripping and twisting it, desperation shaking his small body, Dick knew, that he was looking at a version of himself that had successfully been broken. A version of himself that had every ounce of will and independence beaten out of him. A version that was lost without a Master and yet remembered never wanting one.

And how could Dick hate that version?

“I’m sorry. I will make it up to you. I will…”

Dick might not know who he was anymore, but he sure as hell knew that he couldn’t let Talon stay locked up for even a moment longer.

This might be the worst thing he had ever done, a mistake so grave it might cost him what was left of his family, but Dick looked at the Talon in the cage and saw himself. And there was nothing worse for a Flying Grayson than to stay locked up – than to be unable to fly.

Talon… Talon was no part of the Court of Owls that had almost succeeded in taking Dick a few months earlier. Talon had no reason to kill any of them.

(Except for Dick, but Dick wasn’t all that sure if he had it in him to defend himself – if he even truly wanted to)

It was a risk. It was a dumb risk Dick would never allow himself out in the field. It was a dumb risk Damian would get benched for and Tim yelled at. It was a dumb risk neither Bruce nor Cass would ever take.

It was something so idiotic, so senselessly stupid, so desperately brave that only Dick Grayson with a hurt heart could ever actually do it.

His fingers were numb when he typed his override code in the panels of the holding cell, and the sound of the glass door sliding open only reached him through an ocean of water.

He had opened the door. He let the Talon out of its cage.

He let Dick Grayson out of yet another coffin.

He made a choice.

And he would let tomorrow come to see if it was a good one. Or if he had just made the worst mistake of his life.


	6. Trying and Failing - Bruce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce made his way back to the car, no new clues found, but with resolution in his step. He was dialing Alfred’s number, before he could even think about it:  
> “Hey, Alfred. I am driving back now. I might pass by Cass’s dance studio and see if she wants to get some ice cream before we return.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!  
> And I am back on track! From now on a new chapter should come every Tusday!!!  
> Thank you all for the lovely feedback! You guys are the BEST!!! <3<3<3
> 
> Comments, Kudos and Bookmarks make me EXTREMELY happy! <3

Bruce had lost control during his talk with Tim.

He would not allow himself for that to happen a second time. Tim had found him in a moment of weakness, a moment of doubt and desperation, but he was Bruce Wayne, he was Batman, and Batman should always be prepared.

It had taken some time – uncomfortably long – for Bruce to be able to find a free couple of hours that allowed him to drive to Blüdhaven to check out Dick’s flat for any kind of clue. Tim might have missed something. Bruce just wanted to make sure.

The apartment was a mess.

Nobody had been here since that night a week ago, and yet it felt as if Bruce was taking in the chaos in front of him for the very first time. Dirty dishes were piled high in the sink and on the surrounding counter space, clothes and gear decorated almost every inch of floor visible in the living room area. There was a stench in the air that spoke of trash left to rot for far longer than only a week.

Bruce could feel the worry balling up in his stomach, some part of him desperate for an explanation. Dick had always been a bit messy, his brain always focused so much on saving others, that he tended to forget himself. But this was something else. This was not a forgotten dinner plate, or a living room that could use some vacuuming.

This was not something that could be explained away by a grin and a “you worry too much, B, a bit of dust won’t kill me!”. This was… this was a sign of depression, Bruce’s brain supplied.

This was the apartment and the mess of a person actively falling apart.

And by the looks of it, Bruce was probably the first person spending enough time in here to notice.

But this was not what he came for. He wanted answers. Preferably about Talon and how he had managed to travel to this Earth. Dick could wait. Dick would have to wait.

One problem at a time. Bruce was rather good at that.

The bedroom didn’t look any better, only now signs of a fight were mixed in with the dirty duvet and the piles of old underwear.

His gaze wandered, finding the open doors of the closet Dick stored his gear in, found the dried blood on the carpet where Dick had almost bled out, Talon unconscious besides him. It was hard to forget the almost careless _‘and oh… I need medical’_ that had come over the comms that night. Even harder to ignore how Dick had thought it more important to inform him of the fact that it was a Talon that had attacked him, than the fact that he was already close to losing consciousness due to blood loss.

The horror of yelling Dick’s name but not getting an answer would stay with Bruce until the end of all times. Just as every fruitless attempt to save his children would always stay with him.

It was his duty to save them. And if that failed, to remember them.

Another shake of his head brought him back to the present, his eyes still glued to the brown stain. He was here on a mission. He didn’t come just to get lost in yet another horrible thing that happened to them on the daily.

He might be wearing the suit of Bruce Wayne, but this was a job for Batman.

He scouted the entire apartment, even dared to take a look in the trash, and found absolutely nothing. The tools he had… borrowed from the Watchtower also didn’t bother to give him an answer. It was too late for that. Not even the best tech would be able to find gamma- or T-radiation over a week after the incident.

But Bruce had hoped.

No, Bruce had wanted answers, still craved them, and that meant going over every clue multiple times. It meant scouting for every bit of information he could find. It meant being the best detective possible just by the virtue of being meticulous.

But Dick’s apartment had been a flop.

All he could find were worrying hints regarding his son’s mental health, and Bruce had never once in his life successfully figured out how to deal with something like that. Hell, his own mental soundness still eluded him.

Alfred had once upon a time commented that it was rather ironic for a man like Bruce, who had great compassion and an even greater understanding of the human mind, to be so clueless when it came to his own emotions, to his own mental health. His cluelessness also applied to his kids it seemed.

But Bruce would have to stay strong. He would take care of Talon, figure out how the lost boy had found this particular Neverland, and then he would sit down and talk to Dick. It seemed as if there might be some things the both of them needed to say to each other.

And maybe he could talk to Cass as well. He had noticed how her gaze was constantly following him ever since Talon appeared, and he still remembered her panic when the yelling down in the Cave had gotten to be too much.

Yeah, he would have to have a heart-to-heart with Cass as well.

As soon as Talon was back in… well, Bruce couldn’t bear the thought of sending Talon back into his own universe, not after what the boy had been put through, but maybe he would find a nice and good facility that could take good care of him. Something with a lot of green. A lot of room to breathe. Talon deserved it after so much time cooped up, after so much time spent inside of a coffin.

He made his way back to the car, no new clues found, but with resolution in his step. He was dialing Alfred’s number, before he could even think about it:

“Hey, Alfred. I am driving back now. I might pass by Cass’s dance studio and see if she wants to get some ice cream before we return.”

“Just make sure that you are back before dinner. I am making Chicken Tikka Masala and it would be a shame if my hard work would be for naught… I spend six hours on this after all.”

After Alfred’s rather un-subtle remark, Bruce promised him to be there on time. And hungry.

Maybe Talon had to come first. Maybe he had to solve that problem before he could take care of all the shit that had piled up. But that didn’t mean that he couldn’t get ice cream with his daughter and ask her about her dance recitals while Rocky Road slowly dripped down her cone.

It didn’t mean that he couldn’t just be a dad for a few hours. Because he had missed it. And he knew it would be a long and, well, _rocky road_ before he could have any of that with his sons again. In a way, Cass was the easy one, but that didn’t make him love his sons any less or her any more, it just meant that they would get a chance to breathe today.

They both could use it.

Cass was vibrating with sugar when they made their way back to the Manor, still two hours away from dinner. The entire time they had been sitting on that park bench, overlooking Robinson Park, Cass spoke with her hands, losing the first ice cream cone they had gotten her to a rather dramatic reenactment of some dance studio drama that involved a spit-ball, Cass throwing her dance partner across the room, and a limbo pole for some reason.

Now his daughter was spent, caught somewhere between happy excitement and weary exhaustion.

They had fun, it had been a great few hours, just the two of them. But Bruce couldn’t lie to himself. He had seen how Cass never quite relaxed; he had noticed that her eyes were constantly searching his face for clues. She wanted to say something, Bruce could see the questions burning on the top of her tongue, could see how her entire being was taunt with a want for _something_. Probably answers.

But Bruce had nothing else to give. And he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. He had buried Tim under pain and hurt and desperation the boy should have never heard about, and now he wouldn’t dare to do the same with Cass. She deserved better. Hell, Tim had deserved better as well.

They were his children. He couldn’t, shouldn’t, wouldn’t burden them with his own shit.

Heck, if he had been given a choice, none of them would have never been informed of Talon. He would have hidden the boy away and solved the mystery on his own, without ever even involving one of them. But the moment Talon had appeared in Dick’s apartment (and why _had_ that happened?) Bruce knew that he couldn’t keep his children out of that one. At least not completely. They wouldn’t let him.

That didn’t mean that Bruce wouldn’t still do his very best to keep them as far away from the ugly parts as he could. From his own ugly parts as well. They had been what started this after all, and Bruce was in no capacity better prepared to share that side of him with them, than he had been a year ago.

Only that now Tim knew about it – and the boy was clever, a genius, it would only take him so long before he found out the rest as well.

Bruce would have to be faster. He would have to solve this case before Tim had a chance to crack the past wide open.

If only it were as easy as his brain made it sound.

Cass vanished the moment Alfred opened the doors for them, her steps bouncing up the stairs in the direction of her room.

Warmth filled Bruce every time he noticed one of his older kids using their room. Only Damian lived permanently in the Manor, the rest of them having their own apartments, or penthouses, or roommate situations… and yet Cass liked to spend a few days a week in the Manor, Tim had done the same before… well, before _that_ had happened, and Dick used his room whenever an injury forced him to rest. Duke had his own room as well, one he used whenever he visited from Hong Kong. Jason was the only one who never came back.

Would never come back ever again. Bruce had made sure of that.

He liked it when the kids were in the Manor, liked the feeling of this giant, old house being more than just a shrine to his parents. He liked the Manor being a _home_.

“Dinner should be served in two hours, Master Bruce. If you would be so nice to inform Master Dick of this as well?”

Bruce’s attention snapped back to Alfred, away from the grand staircase, away from the memory of children’s laughter and mayhem. Away from the memory of _family_.

“Of course. Do you know where he is? Now that he is no longer on strict bedrest, I can’t imagine him staying in his room.”

“Well, Master Damian informed me, that Richard has chosen to rest through lunch, and I haven’t seen any of them since… So, your guess will be as good as mine, sir.”

Alfred sounded perplexed as he said it, but Bruce was not surprised. As much as all of them liked to joke that Alfred knew everything, the man was growing older – and he tended to focus on his more daring cooking adventures with a concentration Bruce reserved for his most straining of cases. But then again, Alfred could cook a heavenly curry while Bruce burned toast.

“Thank you. Then I don’t want to keep you from the kitchen. It smells delicious.”

The older man nodded, his eyes staying on Bruce for a moment longer, puzzlement still visible in them, before he turned around, his steps hurried on his way back to the kitchen.

Now it was on Bruce to go on his journey of finding Dick.

The boy wasn’t in his room, as suspected, but Bruce couldn’t find him in the gardens either, nor in the library or the training room. After searching almost the entire Manor, Bruce knew that only two options remained: Dick had either stolen one of his cars, or he was down in the Cave.

Bruce didn’t know which of these options made him angrier… or stressed him out more.

His feet send him in one direction first: The Cave.

His first thought was that he had been wrong, that Dick had chosen the car and not the Bat, but the further down he went on the staircase leading into the unofficial heart of the Manor, the clearer it became that Dick was down here.

And that he had chosen the Talon as his companion.

All air escaped from Bruce’s lungs as he saw just what Dick had been doing down here. He was standing in front of the holding cells, the repaired Nightwing suit slung over his arm, his other hand raised as he typed the override into the panel of the cell.

Bruce couldn’t move. He couldn’t yell.

All he could do was watch, as the impenetrable glass door swished open, as the thing protecting his son vanished and only a few feet of space between Dick and Talon were left.

The angle of Bruce’s position didn’t allow for him to see Dick’s face, but he could see Talon’s. He could see the pain in those dead eyes, even if Bruce was too far away by all accounts to be able to discern anything more than the shape of Talon’s nose. But he _could_ see it. He _could_ feel it.

Talon was in pain.

And Dick had just freed him.

Both of them hadn’t yet noticed Bruce, their gazes probably locked, both waiting for the other to make the first step. And Dick did. He stepped out of the way, making sure that Talon would be able to leave without having to enter Dick’s personal space.

What now? What next?

Bruce would have to act soon, deescalate the situation, make sure that Dick didn’t get hurt anymore. His son was already in enough pain, his side not fully healed yet, his head never getting a chance to completely heal ever again. 

But Bruce was slow today, his mind caught in a thousand different scenarios, his heart beating so fast, he could hear it reverberate in his skull. He was panicking once more. Only this time he couldn’t allow it to overrule his common sense. He wouldn’t.

His opportunity to act had passed, however, while he was busy thinking about all the ways in which he could disarm and subdue the Talon. Normally, Batman was prepared for everything, but only rarely had Bruce gotten a chance to do just that in the last few weeks.

He was always reacting nowadays, never acting. And that was not his strength – it was not what Batman was good at.

Talon hadn’t moved yet, at least not out of the cell, but he was raising his hand in the direction of Dick. And his son stepped closer once more, after he had previously been at least somewhat clever in getting out of Talon’s range of motion. Not now. No, now Dick was the one who moved towards danger, letting Talon touch his cheek.

Bruce wanted nothing more than to be able to see their faces. He needed to know just what was happening on Dick’s, just what connection the two of them were forming down there.

After his first go at talking to Talon Bruce had fled the Cave, and while Batman had returned to his hide-out, he never did so to talk to Talon. No, Bruce had spoken with Talon once, and since then it had been Alfred and Cass who had spent their time with the un-dead assassin. Maybe Damian as well, Bruce wasn’t entirely sure how Damian spent his time down here after school and before patrol.

Bruce had searched for clues outside of Talon, the boy unable to tell Bruce much after all. He was too broken for that. Too dead. Too young and traumatized and hurt.

The only problem was - the outside world had told him nothing either.

And now all he could do was watch as Talon raised his hand, touching Dick’s face, and Dick let him.

He heard his son’s voice first:

“I won’t keep you in another cage. We are Graysons. We are made to fly.”

If only it was that easy. If only the world worked like that.

The Talon flinched when he heard his last name, and Bruce was left wondering how much of his youth Talon remembered. He knew that the Court tended to brainwash and hurt their Talons until nothing from before was left, but he also knew that Other Bruce had twisted Talon long before the Court ever got a chance to bury its grabby claws in Talon’s brain.

How much of Talon was the result of Other Bruce manipulating a little boy and how much was the Court torturing him until he went insane?

It was time he stepped in. There would be no warning signs to Talon losing control, there would only be pain. And Bruce would do everything to protect his children, even if that meant dealing with Talon first. Especially then.

He made sure to make a sound when he took the last few steps down into the Cave, both Talon’s and Dick’s head turning around instantly. There was something eerily similar in the way they moved, in the tilt of their heads, in their eyes squinted in an effort to see him better.

It was a gut punch to be once again reminded of the fact that Talon and Dick… were both Dick Grayson. Were both his sons. Even if Bruce was picking the safety of one of them above the survival of the other. Even if Bruce was already failing when it came to saving Dick, and was barely trying to save Talon at all.

He wanted to, he really did, but Dick would always come first. Talon was, after all, a problem, and Dick his child.

Once they recognized him, their reactions were immediate. Tension returned to Dick’s shoulders, so much so, Bruce feared it was aggravating the healing wound, while every movement bled out of Talon. While Dick looked ready to attack, Talon just stood there, his stance relaxed yet open for action, for being ordered around.

Ah, Bruce had almost forgotten the real reason he had fled the Cave after his first attempt to talk to Talon.

Talon saw him as his Master.

And of all the things Bruce had never wanted to be in his entire life, a Master was right at the top, just below doctor and dead.

Neither of the two boys – or where they men already? – moved when Bruce made his way towards them, their gazes never leaving him, both of them waiting for his reaction – for his _action_ –, even if their respective responses would vary greatly.

Dick was the first one who spoke, his voice quiet, his body vibrating with anger and apprehension:

“Bruce.”

Talon echoed him in the worst way possible:

“Master. Dad.”

Bruce wasn’t the only one that flinched when he heard that godforsaken word, Dick also reacting violently. His son’s head turned back towards the Talon, and Bruce didn’t have to see his face to know that shock was written on it in big black letters.

“Talon. I would appreciate it if you could step back behind the line on the floor, so I can close the door again.”

Bruce tried to make his voice as soft as possible, the order as much of an offer as he could muster, but at the end of the day all of them knew that he was effectively using his power over Talon to get him to step back into the cell, back into imprisonment.

At least that had been the plan, Talon already moving into a position that was far enough away from the door that Bruce didn’t have to fear him being hurt by the closing motion, when Dick intercepted Talon. It was something Bruce hadn’t counted on, but Dick had jumped forward, grabbing Talon’s arm before he was out of reach.

“I will not let you lock him up again, Bruce.”

“Dick, please, let him go. We can talk. We can find a solution. But I need you to let go of Talon’s arm and step away.”

Bruce knew that Dick hadn’t seen what he had. He knew that Dick wasn’t aware of the violence that had flickered through Talon’s eyes the moment Dick had touched him. That Dick didn’t know that the only reason why Talon hadn’t attacked him was because in a moment so small it was barely noticeable, Bruce had shaken his head to signal Talon that he didn’t want Talon to kill. Never wanted him to kill.

Dick was unaware how close he had just been to dying once more.

Bruce needed him out of Talon’s range as fast as possible. He needed to know that Dick would be safe, that Dick wouldn’t die on him here and now, or ever. But if Bruce had learned one thing in the almost sixteen years they had known each other now, it was that nobody told Dick what to do.

Not even – or especially not – Bruce Wayne when Dick’s life was on the line.

“No. Talon deserves… he won’t kill anyone here. Especially not if you tell him not to do it! He… he deserves to be free. He deserves to have _something._ ”

Dick wasn’t just talking about the Talon anymore. And yet Bruce had no idea what to do about that. When Talon had first appeared, Dick had hated him with good reason. The memories of all the countless attempts of the Court of Owls to snatch and hurt him were all too present in his mind. And now? Suddenly Dick was ready to defend Talon’s freedom in the face of Batman.

Maybe Dick was more broken than Bruce had even realized. Maybe this was just the inevitable symptom of a problem Bruce had been too stubborn to face.

It didn’t matter. Not now.

Talon needed to go back into his cage, no, _cell_ and Dick needed to calm down. As soon as Dick was calm again, back from the mental frenzy he had thrown himself into, Bruce would talk to him, maybe even offer him the numbers of a few psychologists, should Dick feel the need to talk to someone.

But first things first:

“We will talk about this, Dick, I promise. I just need you to step back. _Please_ ”

His voice was low, his hands raised in the universal gesture of peace, and yet it did nothing to calm Dick down:

“No! Talon, tell him! You won’t kill anyone!”

“Talon will only kill if Dad wants it to kill.”

Talon sounded a bit confused, Dick still grabbing his arm, the connection never breaking. And Dick only nodded, the ‘ _see! I was right_!’ clear as day on his face, the defiance radiating from his clenched fist, his tense shoulders, the grim twist of his lips, one giant Fuck You.

It was Dick’s teenage years all over again.

“Dick… don’t make me tell you-“

“Hah! There it is! You think you can order me around like Talon. But you can’t. Because I am not him! I am not that broken.”

Another sentence. Another misstep. Another irrevocable mistake.

“I never said you were.”

“You know what, B? Not even the most fucked up version of myself deserves a cage like this.”

With that Dick grabbed Talon’s arm tighter and pulled him out of the cell, doing his best to walk past Bruce without sparing him a glance. Bruce raised his hand in an attempt to… to what? To hit? To stop? _To harm_? Or to help?

Bruce was tired of being the bad guy even if he knew he had created the role for himself. But maybe he could do the right thing just this once.

He really hoped this wasn’t a giant mistake. He really hoped this wasn’t yet another decision that would come back to haunt him later.

There was a myriad of choices laid down before him, and he would be the one who chose the path this family would walk… maybe it was time to take the kind route. Maybe it was time for him to start something new.

Maybe he really didn’t want to be a Master, but a father for once.

His hand hit Dick’s shoulder in the same way his own dad, Thomas, had always touched his when he was especially proud of Bruce; be it because of a school competition little Bruce had won or because of a tender moment shared between a father and his son. Bruce hoped Dick could feel the same emotional heaviness that filled Bruce when he made the connection.

Dick’s eyes were full of righteous fury when he turned around:

“ _What_?”

“I… I am proud of you for standing up for yourself, Dick. And for Talon.”

His brain was already working on contingency after contingency, plan after plan. Right now, all he could offer were words of encouragement, while his mind tried to ensure the safety of his family. But maybe those words would be enough until Bruce found a permanent solution. Until Bruce had solved the problem once and for all.

Dick was still staring at him, shock at the words that left Bruce’s mouth keeping him in place, Talon just as frozen and still.

“Oh, dinner is ready in an hour. Alfred made Chicken Tikka Masala, I should tell him that we need an extra plate. It seems as if our guest is eating with us tonight.”

With that he left them behind – Batman had his job cut out for him: Solve the Talon-equation before this family fell apart even further. Before the cracks breaking them apart became canyons not even death could heal.

And maybe letting Talon out of his cell would buy him time. The kids would be too busy focusing on the killer in their midst to notice if Batman solved the case on his own.

Bruce would have to set a few ground rules first to ensure Talon couldn’t harm any of them, but Bruce could already feel the beginnings of a plan forming in his head. Using Talon as a distraction might just be the thing that he needed for this to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week we finally get to Talon's POV!!!


	7. Death's Tender Hand - Talon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Only that something else had already been there when Talon was created. A love for Batman, a desperate need to please the man and make sure that he was happy. An urge to follow Batman before he ever followed the Owls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my wonderful readers!!!  
> Guess what time it is: TALON TIME!!!  
> God, I have waited so long for this and I really hope you are going to enjoy this as much as I did!
> 
> Warnings: Past Character Death, Cursing, Dissociation, Dehumanization - Talon thinks of itself as an "it"
> 
> **Comments, Kudos and Bookmarks make me extremely happy! <3 **

People thought Talon was stupid. They were wrong. Talon was not stupid, it was just stubborn.

It let the voices of Demon and Red Mask wash over it, not interested in following the conversation. JJ hadn’t made it to this particular meeting because Arkham had upped the security once more, and Talon wondered if it could have missed the meeting as well, going bird watching instead of having to listen to these angry, yelling men.

“Talon, you absolute idiot! Listen to me!”

It was Red Mask that asked for Talon’s attention and when its gaze found the man in question, Red Mask appeared furious:

“The fucking Justice League, Heroes of the Entire Fucking Earth, released Batman from custody. They are reinstating him as a fucking Hero. Batman will be back in Gotham and we will have no fucking chance to kill him because he is under the fucking protection of the fucking Justice League! We need a plan!”

Huh.

Batman would be back.

For a moment Talon dared to feel the forbidden emotions, the joy and hope and love, that always bubbled up in its normally so silent stomach whenever Batman – _Dad_ – got mentioned. But then it remembered what Batman had done. That Batman might be its dad, but he was also Talon’s enemy.

Talon didn’t like it. But it understood why Red Mask and Demon wanted the Batman gone.

“Batman will be back?”

“Yes, that is what our dear friend Red Mask just said. And I am throwing this out here just to clear up any misconceptions: If we killed the Dimension Hoping Asshole Batman, we wouldn’t be in this position. I told you that it would be the most logical choice – or maybe even our only one – but all of you got sentimental like a group of old ladies over a cup of tea and now that… that bastard will be back here and we will be back under his thumb. Or worse: We will be dead because he knows that we were the ones who told that Other Batman how to get the indiscriminating files to the Justice League.”

Demon was young, Talon _knew_ that, and yet it was weird to see a young adult stand tall in the robes of the League of Assassins. Talon hadn’t dared to look into a mirror since the night it was created, but from what it could tell, Talon had come to be around the same age that Demon was now.

Talon would always be eighteen, Demon would grow far beyond that. Red Mask already had.

But they were talking about Other Batman. About the Batman who had come as Matches, who had been shocked to see them all. Who had cried for Talon, even if Talon couldn’t die.

Other Batman had been a dad. And he had known Talon before Talon had been Talon. He had known that Talon liked to call the Cave the Bat-cave and the computer the Bat-computer.

Talon missed that Other Batman.

But Talon knew that it was the only one that did.

“So, what’s next? We wait for our execution? We hunt the fucker down? What is the plan, Big Flightless Asshole of the Demon?”

“Very mature, Red. No, we can’t touch Batman. That other bastard made sure that Father would be protected from our wrath.”

Demon sounded angry, and Talon knew that was Other Batman’s fault. No, it was dad’s fault. Because their own Bruce had been the one to hurt them all, Talon knew that, even if keeping them separate was kind of hard. Both of them looked the same after all, and both of them had shown Talon love. Both of them were Talon’s dad.

Talon missed love. Talon missed being useful:

“Hunt Batman?”

“Yeah, but how? The Justice League won’t allow anyone near him. They have made it clear enough on whose side they are on.”

Red Mask was laughing, and Talon wasn’t sure it understood why, when the man spoke next:

“To be fair, why would they protect scum like us? No offense, but we killed people in the hundreds, if not thousands, just between the three of us. And that doesn’t even count little Timmy and his Joker-crazy killing sprees. The Justice League doesn’t care for people like us. They only care for each other.”

Their meeting place was behind yet another dirty bar, the smell so strong and rancid it almost overpowered Talon’s senses, and yet nothing could hide the dangerous gleam in Red Mask’s eyes when the light of the single bulb caught in them.

Talon feared for whoever would step between Red Mask and whatever he wanted to test his knives and guns on. Or whoever, more likely.

“I can’t leave the city. My operations are in a delicate state, and if I abandon ship now to return to the mountain base, every ounce of work I put into this godforsaken city and this godforsaken project will be for nothing.”

“But what else can we do? Killing Bastard-Man is out of the question, leaving won’t work either… What can we do to save ourselves? Hell, I am sick of just saving myself, Damian, I want revenge. That’s what started this after all: All of us fed up with the monster that created us. All of us ready to finally – _finally_ – get that sweet revenge!”

All of the others were always just so angry. Red Mask especially. Demon’s calculated cruelness did little to mask his fury, and JJ tended to switch rapidly between anger and sorrow and crazy. Maybe Talon had felt all of that too, once upon a time, but now it only knew coldness. Now it only knew the need for warmth. _Love_.

Talon could still remember death coming for it and then just never leaving.

Its very first clear memory was of a white room with many people in it, all of them wearing masks, all of them giving Talon its name. And its purpose.

Only that something else had already been there when Talon was created. A love for Batman, a desperate need to please the man and make sure that he was happy. An urge to follow Batman before he ever followed the Owls.

There had been death living in its veins, a coldness encasing its heart, but Talon had known that it would serve the Bat, its _Dad_ , and it would destroy its very first Masters, the Court of Owls.

There had been no space inside of Talon for anything else.

But now, years and years later, Talon stood tall. It had survived coffins and cages, blood and death, cold and loneliness… it had survived it all, it had killed the Court and taken its throne and yet Dad had never loved it.

Batman had never once touched Talon’s cheek in a sign of worry or hugged him close in an effort to warm the dead flesh. The painful cravings for love were never fulfilled and Talon was lost.

So, when Red Mask and Demon and JJ had asked to end it all, Talon had said yes. Maybe in death Bruce would love it again. Maybe by killing its dad, Talon would finally reach freedom and salvation as well.

Only it hadn’t worked. And some part of Talon was glad it didn’t. Because in their failed attempt Talon had met its true dad. It had met Other Batman, the one who cried tears for Talon. The one who loved Talon, after all.

The conversation around Talon had moved on, while death had forced Talon to stop and freeze, memories of past days something so dangerous Talon tried to stay as far away as possible from them.

It was Red Mask that was currently talking, when its senses returned and dim light flooded its vision, returning Talon to the present:

“- and I am just throwing this out here: But why don’t we just fucking kill that Other Bastard. I mean, it is his fault. We believed him! Fuck! For a moment I actually believed that this sick man actually cared for me… I… I never wanted to be that kid again, that kid that followed a monster just because of a promise of… Shit! Just… let me cut someone’s head off and let me be done with this shit!”

“Huh.”

Both Talon and Red Mask focused on Demon, the man – a kid – sounding thoughtful instead of scornful. Demon liked to mock all of them, making JJ cry or Red Mask try to hurt him. Talon only felt numb when Demon pierced and prodded it with words. Talons were notoriously hard to injure, and Talon was the best of them all.

But for once Demon didn’t sound mean. He sounded actually interested when he spoke next:

“I might have something that could make that possible- last month some of my assassins killed an up and coming meta, who thought himself a genius. They found a tool for multiverse travel in his trash, while searching for- _unimportant_. But if we can get it to work… we could try and enact some revenge by killing Batman.”

Red Mask was grinning – Talon knew it even if it couldn’t see that underneath the skull mask covering his face – as he said:

“And we can start with the Bastard whose fault it all is. And then we can kill the rest. One after the other. It seems as if we’re going to grace Daddy with a visit.”

A shiver ran down its spine. They were going to kill Talon’s dad. They were going to kill the only Batman that had ever actually cared for Talon. It couldn’t let them do that.

They could paint their gloves red with the blood of men and women and Bats for all Talon cared, but it wouldn’t let them hurt the only person that loved it.

Talon had so little love in its life. It would protect what it could.

People thought Talon was stupid. They were wrong. Talon wasn’t stupid, it was just stubborn.

It had been easy to steal the tool – it looked more like a gun and felt wrong in Talon’s hands – because neither Demon nor Red Mask thought it capable of that. But Talon was good. Talon was one of the best.

It had become King of the Court of Owls after all. It had died and lived un-dead ever since.

Talon was just stubborn, and that meant that it would do everything to reach its goal.

The portal in front of Talon wanted it to step closer, and Talon was unable to stop staring, the knowledge that this was _it_ keeping it transfixed. This was the last thing Talon would have to do – the last step it had to take – to get what it wanted: Talon’s dad.

Talon wanted nothing more than to get its dad back… and Talon would get him even if that meant traveling through the multiverse. Even if it meant leaving everything behind. The Court, Red Mask, JJ, and even Demon. Its own Bruce. Talon would do it.

Because Talon wanted love. Talon wanted its Dad.

Talon took that one step forward – and the world like it knew it ceased to exist.

\---

There was darkness, there was pain. It took too long for Talon to get its bearings back, too long for its eyes to focus on anything besides the stars dancing across its vision. But once it did, Talon could see a closet, and, through the space between the closet doors, mountains of clothes.

It looked like some of the bedrooms of Talon’s victims, the ones that were easy to kill since they didn’t really fight back. Talon didn’t like those kinds of kills, no thrill or hunt anywhere in sight. Nothing to get its still heart beating faster with the adrenaline it no longer had.

But this was not that kind of mission. Talon had another goal. Talon needed to find its dad. Talon needed to find love, before the others could.

A noise asked for Talon’s attention, the silent steps of someone trained, but before Talon could think about leaving the closet behind, the door to the larger room got kicked open. Someone half naked entered the room, someone with a weapon in his hand and a mask covering his eyes.

Someone that looked vaguely familiar.

Talon was silent as it watched its prey, proud of its decision to wear its formal hunting uniform. The man searched the room with his eyes, never finding Talon. Talon could see the exhaustion coloring the steps of its victim, could see the perfect opportunity for an attack come closer and closer, when a small shift of its foot sent one of the boxes next to it crashing down.

The man zeroed in on Talon’s hiding place immediately, and Talon knew that the confrontation would no longer happen on its own terms. This would be a fight with Talon at a disadvantage, especially since its opponent seemed to be a well-seasoned fighter, even if his bedroom spoke of laziness and easy prey.

Talon’s eyes looked on those of its victim the moment the closet door was opened from the outside, even if it could only see the mask the man was hiding behind.

The feeling of familiarity returned as Talon allowed itself to search the entirety of its opponent for clues. The man… the man looked like a mirror image of Talon, a fun-house mirror, twisted and different and whole.

The man looked like a Talon that could have been.

But Talon was the only Talon. It _had_ to be the only Talon. What else was its purpose if not to be the King of the Court, the Talon to end it all?

Talon couldn’t allow for competition, couldn’t allow for someone else to bear its name.

“The Court and its King had sentenced you to die.”

It attacked.

Dad had locked Talon up. It was a bigger coffin than what Talon was used to after years of serving the Court and it was full of luxuries Talon could never have dreamt off. Only a small part of that due to the fact that Talon never slept at all.

But it was warm for once, even warmer than the chambers above the Labyrinth that Talon used as its quarters, nowadays. And it had a bed with blankets on it and a screen that protected Talon’s privacy should it have any feelings of shame left.

The light was so bright it burned Talon’s eyes, but the pain was nothing in comparison to the pleasantries of being allowed to be here.

Talon had lost its fight against this universe’s version of itself, and when it woke up, it hadn’t been pain and torture that greeted him, but the face of its true Master, of its _dad_. The man had been surrounded by half a dozen Owlings, and Talon had found its mirror-self as well.

There had been nothing much that Talon had been able to do, except declaring its intentions. It had gotten loud in the Batcave after that – and Talon had made it home again! Talon had found the Cave again! – and the next thing Talon knew, Batman had sent it into this cage. This coffin.

Talon was used to being encased in glass, was used to the horrors of silence and confinement and the inability to move. It was just grateful that dad had given it any comforts at all.

Dad must really love Talon.

It could even see parts of the Batcave when it stood close to the glass and it liked watching the Batman and his Owlings work. It looked so efficient. So fun. Talon wanted to serve under this Master as well, wanted to be a Talon to a Batman like this.

In the future Talon might have to take care of the Owlings taking up dad’s attention, might have to make sure that Talon was truly the only one dad loved, but until then Talon would enjoy watching the dance of a master and his fledglings.

And maybe it would be easier for Talon to win the top spot in Batman’s heart if it could answer all the questions Bruce asked. But words never belonged to Talon, they had always been the Courts, and even now, as its King, Talon had never really gotten them back.

Talon could only speak the truth in the limited words that it had:

“Talon wants its Dad back. You are Talon’s dad.”

It wasn’t the answer Batman wanted to hear. But even when Talon tried to sooth its dad’s nerves by using the title that the man deserved, even when Talon called him Master and bowed its head in the way of submission, Batman didn’t seem to be satisfied, leaving Talon behind in a coffin made out of glass. In a coffin made out of love.

The Owlings visited Talon. At least a few of them did. He recognized one of them as JJ, while the female one was completely foreign.

And another Master came by, one that Talon vaguely remembered. Talon just wasn’t sure why, since the man was older and frail looking, it just knew that it did. Every single Owling and even Talon’s dad himself seemed to follow along with whatever order the… was it the Grandmaster of this Court?... the Grandmaster gave.

So, when the Grandmaster brought Talon a new set of clothes, soft, black casual wear that offered none of the protection or comfort Talon loved from its own uniform, Talon complied, exchanging one set of clothing with another, signaling its willingness to bow to this new Master as well.

Signaling its willingness to submit.

Talon had been its own Master - in a sense - for years now, had managed the Court of Owls and all the horrors it rained over Gotham on its own, but it had missed the stability that came from following an order. It missed being useful and used and loved.

The King of the Court had been lonely, only Red Mask, Demon and JJ left as companions, and all of them were just as broken as Talon, just as unsure and needy when it came to the comforts of affection.

Talon would happily give up the hard-won ability to make decisions for itself for the chance to be a tool in its master’s hands again. Especially since this dad loved Talon. This dad wouldn’t use Talon’s love against it, wouldn’t break Talon further and further again until there was nothing left.

This dad would hug Talon and tell it that he was proud of his son. That he was proud of Talon.

And for a short moment Talon would feel alive again, would feel warm again, and everything it would have done to get the praise of its master would have been worth it, just for that moment of love.

Just the possibility of this made waiting in this coffin made out of glass worth it.

Time had no effect on Talon, frozen as it was in its own past, but it was still surprised when it was its own mirror-self that greeted it one day. The man had shadows under his eyes, and a stance that did little to hide the wound Talon had inflicted on him, and yet he looked so much more alive than Talon ever could.

Not even the ugly scar – and some part of Talon missed things leaving a mark on it, missed the scars that told stories of deadly blows and horrid wounds – on Other Talon’s head could change that.

But as Talon watched – and felt the eyes of its mirror follow itself as well – it noticed something else as well. Its very first assessment had been correct: While the other people that had gathered around himself were Owlings, subordinates with a lesser standing, this was the Talon of this Court:

“You are Talon. Dad’s Talon.”

“What?”

Their voices were so different, and for a moment Talon wanted to burn in jealousy before it remembered that emotions like these would only be in its way. Talons needed to be cold. Talons only needed to follow and to obey. And to kill:

“You are Talon. Dad’s Talon.”

Maybe repeating the words would make the other understand. Maybe repeating it would make sure that their battle would be fought with honor.

There could only be one Talon after all.

“I… I am no one’s Talon. I am Dick Grayson. You are as well.”

The words made no sense. Why had other Talon said them with such conviction? The moment a Talon was born it was only Talon. There might have been something before, but the only thing that mattered was _after_. The only thing that mattered was _dad:_

“Talon is… Talon”

“No, you are more than just a Talon. You are… you are Dick, _Richard_ , a person.”

Talon really wanted for its mirror to shut up.

Talon knew exactly what it was, and it knew exactly what it needed to be. There was no room for someone called Richard, there was no room in Talon left to be a person.

The other Talon must have been lying to himself, or grasping at straws, but Talon knew what it was. Talon didn’t need doubt or identity in its life.

Talon only needed dad.

And maybe to kill all the other Owlings to make sure that it would never lose its Master ever again.

“Talon is Talon. You are Dad’s Talon. Talon was Court of Owl’s Talon… now Talon is its own Talon. But it wants its Dad.”

There were so little words Talon could use to bring its message across. How could it tell the Other Talon that it was planning to kill him? The Other Talon should know that. Should know that there could ever be only one of them.

And Talon wasn’t stupid. Talon was just stubborn.

Its mirror didn’t seem to understand. There was something frantic in his movements, and Talon was once again reminded of the chaotic nest of the Other Talon, of the wound Talon itself had inflicted in their first fight for dad’s love:

“Why me? Why my… _dad_? Wasn’t there another world you could travel to? Another Bruce Wayne you could attack with your… knives and love?”

Talon… didn’t understand. Of course, it would travel here. Of course, it would get this dad for itself. Talon needed love. Talon needed a Master that would care for it. Talon needed the one Bruce Wayne who could warm its still and cold heart, who could make Talon feel useful and warm again.

Why couldn’t Other Talon just understand that? Why couldn’t Talon just fight him to the death, both of them knowing that that was how the world worked?

There was only one dad that loved Talon. And Talon would do everything to become his. It needed to:

“No! No! Talon needs this Dad. Talon wants this Dad! It is Talon’s dad! This one!”

Talon had grown loud. It had yelled. _No_. Talons were silent creatures.

It should be silent.

Why had it grown loud?

The Other Talon’s opinion wasn’t that important. Talon could still fight him. Talon could still win.

But there was a panic inside it now.

It had grown loud. It had made noise.

Talons were supposed to be silent creatures.

It would get punished for this, now that it had a Master again. And it would deserve it.

Words belonged to humans. Talon was no longer human.

“Calm down! It’s okay! Please… it’s alright. Okay… everything will be okay…”

Its mirror tried to sooth it, probably already counting on all the ways in which he could use Talon’s breech of etiquette against it. Other Talon had raised his hands in a gesture of peace, but Talon knew that it was only a trick. Only a trap.

Talon had misbehaved. This could mean that all had been for naught. That Batman would never make it his Talon again. That Talon would never find what it had come so far to get.

But why did Talon want that?

Talon had been its own King for years and years. It had brought sorrow and pain over Gotham. It killed because it wanted to, not because Batman or the Court had ordered it.

Talon had been willing to kill its own Batman, its own dad, just as much as JJ or Demon or Red Mask had been ready to do so.

And yet… and yet the prospect of losing another Master sent shivers down its spine, sent spikes of horror through its stomach:

“Talon is Talon. Talon needs its Dad. Talon needs _this_ Dad. Talon only belongs to Talon. Talon wants a Dad. This one. **This one**! Talon needs a Master. Talon needs its Dad. Talon belongs ONLY to Talon.”

Talon was Talon.

Talon needed its dad. It needed the Batman of this dimension.

But it also just wanted to be free.

The cage its dad had stored it in was roomy and better than anything that Talon could remember from the Court before Talon made it bow. No stark white labyrinth, no chamber after chamber of training and torture, no white coffin that made you cold, cold, cold until you could only stare and suffer and stare and wait.

And yet Talon wanted to be free.

_No._

Talon wanted a Master – Talon wanted a world that made sense again.

“I’m sorry. I will make it up to you. I will…”

Other Talon was talking, and before Talon could even try to understand, one wall of its coffin slid open. There was no longer glass between Talon and its mirror. There was only a couple of feet of distance and the knowledge that Batman would be disappointed in Talon if it killed one of his fledglings now, keeping it from twisting its mirror’s neck until it broke with a satisfying crack.

Instead Talon raised its arm, some part of it curious just how warm the skin of its mirror would be.

They had freed Talon of its cage, only to lock it in a bigger one.

Talon was now allowed to wander the Manor halls, to explore the hallways that seemed vaguely familiar without any real recognition. But Talon wasn’t stupid. It could feel the eyes following it everywhere, it could feel the contempt in the air, whenever it left the room it had been assigned.

Dad had… Master had set rules for Talon to follow, accepting it in his Court, finally giving Talon direction and guidance again.

Talon was not allowed to leave the house – but Talon knew that there would be missions soon, that it would be sent out anyways.

Talon was not allowed to fight the other Owlings – but Talon was aware of how things like this were handled, a tournament to the death probably in their near future.

Talon wasn’t allowed to carry weapons with it or use a knife – and it had hurt to see the only thing that had been _its_ for so long being locked away behind an impenetrable door.

Talon was not allowed to kill – but Talon knew that there would be situations that would ask for it anyways.

Talon didn’t plan on disobeying, it didn’t plan on breaking any of these rules, but Talon had been Talon for a long, long time, and it knew what its Masters would want from it.

Still, its own mirror was the one that confused Talon the most, dad being much like how Talon had imagined him to be. Because its mirror… didn’t hate Talon. The other Talon wanted to be called Dick and he pulled Talon along to get dinner or to search the Manor for one of the other Owlings, even when Talon had almost killed him before.

There was something desperate in its mirror’s movements, but a part of Talon knew that it wasn’t the possibility of murder that kept _Dick_ on his toes, but something else. Something that had everything to do with dad and nothing with Talon.

It was… _intriguing_.

Dick always talked about leaving and sometimes he did, but Talon could see itself in its mirror. Dick just wanted someone to ask him to stay.

Dick just wanted someone to love him.

That was something Talon could understand.

So, it let itself be dragged along and it let itself be handled like a pet or a fancy trophy. It would be rather silly if Talon would take offense to being handled like a prize – it was a tool after all.

If only dad would do the same, if only its Master would treat it with attention and orders.

But, no, Talon would win its dad’s love, and if that meant following along as its mirror desperately tried to connect with it, then so be it.

The other Owlings were… less of a problem most of the time. The small, angry one didn’t like Talon and Talon knew why: This Owling – in contrast to the others – had realized that Talons would have to fight to the death to earn a place to stay. The tiny Owling knew that only one of them could survive and it wanted to be the winner itself.

Talon would have to keep an eye on that one.

The silent one, Talon knew, would be a challenge. It had seen her move, had seen her fight, and Talon knew that the only thing that would sway this battle in its favor, was the fact that Talon was a killer, that Talon couldn’t die, not even with a claw buried in its stomach, or a knife sticking out from its neck.

Its opponents had tried both.

And all of them were dead now.

There were other ones, others that the occupants of the Manor only whispered about. Their names or ranks were never spoken aloud and dad always looked sad when he noticed their absence. And yet both of them were alive, Talon had asked.

Only their shadows visited the Manor, both not returning to the Court they had sworn to protect themselves.

Talon wondered why. But still, they would meet an honorable death by Talon’s blade, just like the others.

Talon only had to bide its time. Talon only had to wait for dad to love it before it could strike. Talon only had to find the right moment.

And it would.

But until then it would let its mirror pull it along, and it would let the small and the silent one observe it, and it would let dad keep on his distant watch.

Time was… Time was not real for Talon. It only knew missions, where everything happened fast and constantly, and it knew the time between them, when everything was cold and slow, slow, slow.

The Manor introduced Talon to a new way of experiencing time: The constant thrumming of seconds and minutes passing by.

Dick had vanished from the Manor some… _days_ ago, now only rarely showing his face, always just sneaking in to speak to Talon or to hug the small, angry one. Never to speak to his Master, never to speak to his dad.

The small, angry one was gone most of the time, when the sun was still out and Talon tried to stay away from the windows, the pain of light hitting its sensitive eyes, annoying and distracting when Talon couldn’t dare to be either.

The quiet one went and came as she pleased and Talon had not yet found a rhythm to her actions, a sense to her suspicious behavior.

A different Owling appeared while the others were away, a skittish one, who looked at Talon as if it killed someone dear to him. And maybe Talon had, but in its own world and not in this.

(And maybe this was one of the Owlings, the others only whispered about)

But even that new Owling only appeared sometimes.

Talon knew that time shouldn’t be important for it, knew that Talons had no use for unnecessary information, only the mission being important, only the order their master had given them of any value at all and yet… Talon would always wonder.

Slow and fast were words Talon could work with. Words it understood.

But Days? Weeks? Months? How was Talon supposed to know what dad or Grandmaster meant with that, if everything moved constantly, if the Manor was never slow and cold, and there were no missions to tell Talon how it felt when the world was moving faster.

Time was meaningless when you were frozen from the inside out.

Talon only knew that it was passing. And that it was hard not to notice that the Manor wasn’t like anything Talon knew.

There was a warmth in it that Talon hadn’t known actually existed.

The Owlings and Dad shared tender gazes and careful smiles. And when they went out at night together, the Batman taking all his fledglings with him (except for Talon), there was energy and joy in their movements.

All of them had words. All of them were allowed to speak and Talon wanted nothing more than to be one of them.

To be someone worthy of this love.

Talon didn’t know how it would achieve that, how it could possibly earn something so tender and valuable, but it would sure as hell try.

There was no hell waiting for it. Only death, and death hadn’t left its veins since the day it was born.

Death was Talon’s companion, not its foe.

Death would help Talon achieve its goal.


	8. Homecoming - Jason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But now… almost a year later, Jason saw Gotham again for the first time, be it through rain and smog and darkness. Be it from a couple of miles away. Some part of him still believed that Gotham was at its best when it looked like this. When you couldn’t see its fucked-up nature up close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and Welcome to another amazing chapter of a long running story!  
> A giant THANK YOU to everyone who reads and comments and kudos this story - you seriously make me so happy!
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Past Childhood Abuse, Violence (not particular graphic), a blink and you miss it reference to possible past sexual abuse
> 
> Comments, Kudos, and Bookmarks make me extremely happy!!! <3<3<3

If there was one thing Jason hated more than rain, it was rain and a heat so stifling it felt as if he was breathing boiling hot water through the filters of his helmet.

The general smell of Blüdhaven didn’t help either, nothing good ever coming from a city like this.

Hell, look at Goldie and you could already tell that this hole was good for nothing but pain drizzled over a pile of trash.

Which was probably why the drug cartel Jason had been tracking for the last month chose Blüdhaven as their base of operations. So much trash would cover the smell these piles of shit produced.

Fire ants were crawling on the inside of his skin and Jason had to suppress the need to scratch his arms bloody. But Blüdhaven was too close. Too close to Gotham.

Crouching on top of the City Hall, rain pressing down on his leather jacket, Jason could almost see the light pollution Gotham produced on the other side of the river. _It was too close_.

He hadn’t been in a fifty-mile-radius to Gotham ever since that fateful night, almost twelve months ago. Ever since Bruce had yelled at him, pushing every button Jason had forgotten he even had, creating a pain so fierce, Jason almost wished Bruce would just have punched him.

Jason knew how to deal with fists and pain and broken trust. That had been his childhood after all.

But it had always been words that could cut him wide open, showing the entire world that the scary Red Hood was a fucking softie on the inside.

And Bruce had always been the best when it came to using just the right words to make Jason run.

But now… almost a year later, Jason saw Gotham again for the first time, be it through rain and smog and darkness. Be it from a couple of miles away. Some part of him still believed that Gotham was at its best when it looked like this. When you couldn’t see its fucked-up nature up close.

He shook his head to clear the nostalgia clinging to his helmet. He hadn’t come to Blüdhaven to wax poetically about Gotham, her horrors and her beauty. He had come here to find some fucking drug lords that liked to sell to kids.

It just sucked that those bastards had chosen brother-dearest’s city for their operations. Jason could have gone another year without having to see any of them.

But Dick hadn’t shown his face, and the night was growing late – or early, to be more accurate.

If anyone asked, Jason would deny ever having felt even the barest hint of worry when it came to the Golden Child of their flock and yet he could feel concern bubbling in his stomach.

He shouldn’t have eaten that chili dog before he went out tonight. No one could make them like the vendor in Robinson Park, and it had been foolish of him to even try and get one that would create the same warmth and satisfaction. Now he was just nauseous and worried about that Dickface.

Jason liked to be prepared. He hadn’t planned on hitting his targets tonight, just as he hadn’t jumped them yesterday when he stalked them along every step of their nightly routine. But he had counted on finishing the job by tomorrow, so the chance of being spotted and found out would be lower.

But now… it seemed as if Jason had no need to worry. Because there had been no Nightwing sighting during the last two nights.

So, maybe it wasn’t brotherly feelings that made Jason worry, but good common vigilante sense.

Nightwing was a fucking workaholic. As bad as – if not worse than – Batman. It irked Jason that he didn’t have to avoid his older brother at any point during the last few days. Normally, Dick prided himself in knowing the comings and goings of every person of interest in his city, and call Jason prideful, but he liked to think of himself as such.

But nothing. Nada. No call. No hurling of insults. No death-defying version of catch.

Something was going on. Definitely.

And it made Jason antsy not to know what exactly it was.

The rain and the heat certainly weren’t helping.

Maybe he was just paranoid – the green tinging the corners of his vision whispering lies of pain and destruction – and Dickface was cuddling it up with the brat, playing happy family, while he ignored the Bat-shaped shadow Jason liked to call Daddy Issues. Maybe Dickie Bird was playing house, and Jason worried for that bastard, who hadn’t even called in a year, for nothing.

But something churning in his stomach told him that wasn’t the case.

And he had the cruel suspicion that it wasn’t just the chili dog.

The night vision of his helmet picked up a flash of low-level light on the other side of the roof, and the sharp pain in his gut told him that this wasn’t just some kid, playing in forbidden places. No, this was trouble.

Jason had learned to trust his intuition the hard way and he sure as hell wouldn’t stop now.

His steps were silent and deadly as he made his way to the other side. It didn’t take long for him to notice the figure standing in the rain, with their back to Jason and their gaze wandering over the trash pile that was Blüdhaven.

It was a man – most likely – with broad shoulders and a fitting suit that slowly soaked in the summer rain, and Jason tensed when he noticed something else. Something that promised the kind of danger he was sure he was ready to face tonight.

A skull mask.

It was too dark to say anything more precise than that. Not that Jason needed to see anything else. He would recognize that mask anywhere. After what that bastard had done to Stephanie. After what Jason had tried multiple times to do to him, how could he not?

But what was the guy doing in Blüdhaven? Shouldn’t he be dead or locked away? And had the Black Mask finally dropped his businessman get-up to build up some muscle?

Jason inched closer, uncomfortably aware of his own breathing, when a stroke of lightning illuminated the figure in front of him.

The skull mask wasn’t black. No, it was a familiar shade of red. A red that currently adjourned Jason’s head as well in the form of a helmet.

What the fuck was going on here?

Maybe it was time to stop hiding away. Maybe it was time for Jason to ask all these really important questions aloud, without cowering behind one of the air vents decorating the roof.

He wasn’t cautious or silent when he straightened, his head held high, his shoulders squared. And yet the man in the red skull mask didn’t react, his face still turned away from Jason, away from the answers he sought.

“Hey!”

Still no reaction.

Jason could feel the cold anger bleeding into his vision, could feel the fury burning his veins. That guy was ignoring him. The rain wasn’t strong enough to overpower the sound of yelling and Jason could recognize a deliberate attempt at ignoring someone from a hundred miles away.

He had grown up in Goldie’s shadow after all, and even Bruce on his best days – and wasn’t that just painful to admit – had tended to ignore Jason or Alfred if they said anything that didn’t fit into Batman’s view of the world.

Didn’t mean the fucker hadn’t heard them, however.

And Jason hated it when people ignored him. He was the fucking Red Hood.

He was no longer seven and waiting for his dad to come home. Or ten, trying to wake up his mom from an eternal slumber, or thirteen and trying to nap the hubs of the Batmobile, or sixteen, craving attention and love from a parental figure with a deadly need.

He was twenty-one, almost twenty-two, and he was the fucking Red Hood. Nobody ignored him:

“Hey, Fuckface! I was talking to you! What are you doing here dressed like a cheap Halloween villain, staring onto the city as if you are Hamlet returning home? That’s some fucking suspicious behavior, if I might say so myself. I am sure my guns would agree.”

That got a reaction. Finally. Only that it wasn’t the one Jason had been expecting. His opponent was laughing. And not just a polite chuckle or anything, no, the dude was shaking from a full-blown belly laugh.

It… it was not the normal kind of reaction Jason was used to. Most of the crazies he fought on the daily knew that he might have been a Bat some time ago, but that he had been the Bat that Killed. And now he was the Red Hood, guns-blazing.

Only the real bad guys, the real nut-jobs, laughed in the face of a Bat.

His stomach heaved from all the gruesome possibilities that flooded his brain. This man could be the reason why Big Bird hadn’t annoyed the hell out of Jason for the last few days. Who knew what else this weirdo had done, what other horrors he had probably rained over the Blüd.

Not that Jason cared, of course.

He was just doing his duty as a vigilante. That’s something else that Bruce never really understood. That just because Jason knew when to pull the trigger didn’t automatically also mean that Jason would be a criminal himself.

He knew how to help people. Hell, he enjoyed saving someone just as much as the next guy. Or lady.

He just believed in consequences. And if the bastard in front of him had hurt someone – or many someone’s for that matter – well, then Jason wasn’t above dealing him the punishment he deserved.

“The Brat had warned me that there might be some unforeseen consequences to our travel, but I didn’t count on this. Oh, I wish Timmy was here to see this, this has to be some sort of cosmic joke!”

The man had stopped laughing and Jason couldn’t help but shiver as the red mask, sculpted after the idea of a burned-off face, turned towards him. He could feel their gazes meet, even through two layers of helmet. Even though it should have been impossible.

The muscles in his legs tensed, his hand finding the gun strapped to his thigh with the talent of a blind man, and Jason found himself in a battle-ready position. What years of intense training could do, what a childhood as a soldier would do to a man. To Jason.

Jason might no longer be a Bat, but he sure as hell had been raised as one:

“Let me repeat myself: Who. The. Fuck. Are. You?”

“My, my, that wasn’t even the question you asked, but I will answer, nevertheless. I am a polite man after all: I am the Red Mask, king of the drugs and the guns – and sometimes the prostitutes. But I have a feeling in my gut that you might now me better as… _Jason Todd_.”

The soft hiss of a mask being opened was audible. Only that Jason knew that it would be impossible for him to hear a sound so faint through the sheets of rain. Only that Jason knew that the noise was only in his head, that he was the only one hearing the hiss that always accompanied his own helmet when he took it off.

But it wasn’t Jason that showed the world his bare face. No, it was the Red Mask who pulled the skull away from his face, only to reveal scars beneath and a white lock of hair that Jason saw every afternoon when he finally managed to leave his bed for a piss.

The Red Mask wore Jason’s face but… _wrong_.

He could recognize the hair and the eyes and the sardonic twist of the lips, but the face of the man staring back at him made Jason feel like a boy all of a sudden. It was the face of a man who had hurt and liked to hurt others.

It reminded him of Willis. It reminded him of everything he never wanted to become:

“Wha-?”

“Oh, did I shock little alternative me? I thought Old Bastard Man said I wasn’t an angel in this universe either. But, hell, he must have been lying about that just as much as he had been lying about everything else.”

“I don’t-”

Jason liked to think of himself as witty, as an intelligent man to hold a conversation with, but right now he was stumped. He was well-read, he had traveled the multiverse himself and yet… all he could think about was Willis.

Himself.

Batman.

 _Bruce_.

Him.

Willis.

_Again._

“Well, little Red Riding Hood, I can only make this oh-so-simple for you. You have a choice: You can either step out of my way and I will carry on with my plan and be gone from this little world of yours before you know it, or you can stand there and try to stop me. But just because we share the same mother doesn’t mean, that I won’t break every single bone in your body one after the other before skinning you and enjoying the sight. But it’s up to you. Really.”

Jason was better than the sweat collecting under his gloves, better than the elevated heartbeat and the tears burning in his eyes.

He was the Red Hood, for God’s sake.

He had come back from the dead.

“Well, if you are who you say you are” – and wasn’t it just weird that street-alley kid Jason Todd didn’t even blink at the prospects of other dimensions anymore – “then you already know that there is only one answer to your fucking question: Eat shit and try to chew on this!”

With that he pulled his guns – and their triggers – not leaving room for thoughts. Only reaction. Only a decade of training. Only shots fired on a silent roof in the middle of Blüdhaven during a rainy summer storm.

He didn’t hit his target.

Not that Jason had counted on that, not really, since he hadn’t had any time to aim when he pulled the trigger. He just needed to proclaim his intention. He just had to send a proverbial ‘fuck you’ in the direction of his double. And that he did.

Red Mask twisted out of the way, the business suit apparently more flexible than it had any right to be. Jason had no idea when it happened, but suddenly there were guns, two of them – hard-hitting models – in the Red Mask’s hands.

“Don’t worry, kid, I will only hit non-vital spots! I want to have the fun of killing you with my bare hands after all!”

For a moment Jason thought about yelling back something clever about oxymorons in literature and the idiots that liked to use them, but the BANG of bullets flying told him that there were more important things for him to do. Like finding cover. Like not dying, again.

Red Mask’s guns and bullets followed him as Jason started to run, using one of those annoying jump rolls Dick had taught him, to dive behind one of the air vents. He needed to catch his breath.

His one advantage in gun fights tended to be that nobody counted on Jason to even be there. And even if they spotted him, even if they became aware of the haunting presence of the Red Hood, it was usually too late, Jason in a position with a higher vantage point than his opponents.

He had none of that now.

He had a handful of guns and a slippery rooftop in a city he was only vaguely familiar with.

But… his opponent had even less of a plan. Because that fucker came from an entirely different universe.

(And no, Jason didn’t want to waste any of his thoughts on the fact that the guy was _Jason Todd_ )

“Hey! Little me! Why don’t you come out of hiding? Your big mouth promised me pain, after all. I want to see you try!”

Well, no one should say that Jason was above a little sarcastic banter with himself, threats of death and torture heavy in the air. On both sides.

He moved without the barest hint of noise, his feet shifting on the gravel, his raised gun peaking around the corner of the air vent, taking aim on the shadowy figure he could see walking towards him through the rain.

His voice was loud when he spoke next:

“Well, how do you like the taste of this?”

And then he pulled the trigger. The bullet hit its target square on, but the Red Mask didn’t stop or falter. He just kept on walking, he just kept on coming closer and closer.

Well, fuck.

The laughter was chilling when Jason finally registered it through the panic of scrambling back behind his cover.

The Red Mask was laughing, and Jason was no idiot, he knew that wasn’t a good sign:

“Oh, you thought I didn’t wear any protective gear? This suit is lined with the best Kevlar you can buy with money and blackmail. Daddy Dearest helped me get it, after I killed my dear old boss while he wore nothing but a business suit.”

Jason wasn’t sure exactly what the fuck was going on here, but he knew that it didn’t make any sense. And it didn’t have to. Jason had to get away, he had to lure the asshole into a trap, and for that he had to manage to get down off this roof.

Easier said than done.

But he had been in this game for some time now, had even dabbled in the villain profession once or twice himself, and he knew that no one liked the sound of their own voice more than bad guys without friends. Not even theater kids were this bad when it came to monologuing; Jason should know, he had been one after all.

Now he only needed the Red Bitch to keep on talking:

“What the ever-loving fuck are you talking about? Daddy Dearest? That shit is nasty, you overblown Othello!”

An alliteration – _nice_.

“Hah! Bitch-Man did say that things were different here when he visited us. But he didn’t tell us that Black Mask had never gotten his grabby fingers on you – or me. Interesting. You want to know what happened?”

No.

“Yes?”

“Well… I came back after my sweet, sweet sponsor let me die… all angry at the world. I was an adorable little murdering maniac. Really.”

Red Mask didn’t even try to hide his steps, each crunch of leather slippers hitting wet gravel sending spikes of anxiety down Jason’s spine. That bastard knew what he was doing to Jason, he was taunting him on purpose. Jason hated the fact that it worked.

“And then I visited dear Black Mask, the man who hurt me – the only man I could see and touch. The only man I could reach. And I said ‘sorry, for dying, I will make it up to you’… and then I skinned him alive. I sent what was left of him to Batman and took over the drug trade. What a fun little story.”

It wasn’t. It really, really wasn’t.

Especially since Jason heard every word that Red Mask hadn’t said. Since Jason knew just what part of the story Red Mask had decided to hide.

The chili dog in his stomach wanted to leave more than ever before, acid bubbling in his throat.

But no, Jason would stay strong. He wouldn’t cave just because Alternate Him had an even shittier life. He wouldn’t bow to a bad guy just because he had a sad origin story. He was better than this. He had grown stronger than this.

And that was why Jason did something dumb. He turned his back towards Red Mask, towards the man that came closer one torturous step at a time, and got ready to run:

“Boo hoo, cry me a river, asshole. Why are you here?”

“Isn’t that an easy answer? To do the same thing to Batman, of course.”

With that Red Mask rounded the corner, guns raised, and Jason started sprinting towards the edge. His feet did their best in getting him the hell out of there and more bullets were flying by left and right the further he managed to get.

The edge of the roof was visible in front of him, when one of the bullets finally hit. He stumbled, his reflexes saving him in the last possible second from face planting into the wet gravel.

He wasn’t injured. He wasn’t bleeding.

His body armor had protected him. He would have a nasty bruise on his back tomorrow, but he wouldn’t die. He would manage just fine.

Now he only needed to believe it as well, his pulse a sledgehammer of adrenaline and fear.

His boots hit the edge of the roof, Red Mask’s voice grating even through the filters of his helmet:

“Are you running away, you little pig? Are you DONE? Are you AFRAID?”

It was unnecessarily dangerous what he had planned next, showy in a way normally only Dick or Tim tended to be, but fuck it, Jason had every right to be a dramatic bitch as well.

He jumped off the roof, turning around midfall so he was looking at Red Mask, and opened fire just as gravity took hold and pulled him back towards the ground forty feet below.

“Catch me if you can, you sick bastard!”

Jason couldn’t see if any of his bullets connected, and – honestly? – he didn’t care to find out, twisting in the last possible moment to fire his grapple into the building on the opposite side of the street.

He had to be noisy as he escaped, he had to leave a trail, so the Red Mask could follow him, so Jason could lure his own alternative self into a trap.

He passed by one house after the other, jumping from roof to roof, grappling from warehouse to warehouse, significantly slower than he could be. He wanted to be seen.

(Goldie had still not shown his face – Jason was still not concerned at all)

But the sky was clearing up, and with the slow ebbing away of the mind-numbing rain, the thoughts came back as well.

_Aw, shit._

Just what the fuck had Red Mask been talking about?

Alternate Universe travel was something Jason had his fair share of experience with, but the way Red Mask talked about it had… sounded somewhat different. And Bruce? Apparently that asshole was involved as well.

Jason almost slipped and tumbled off a roof, when his brain managed to find a memory he had thought to be forgotten:

A couple of months before Bruce decided to be the shittiest asshole on this side of the universe, back when Jason still had had a family and a team, there had been an incident. A body swap incident, that left Jason with a Batman that had been nicer – and way more understanding of the Red Hood’s methods than his own Batman was.

Could that…?

He never got a chance to figure it out, Red Mask using Jason’s mistake to end this wild goose chase through Blüdhaven. The bullet pierced his jacket, leaving a trail of red when it grazed the tender flesh of Jason’s arm.

He was hit. A graze. Nothing bad.

But the first blood of the evening had been drawn.

It was time that Jason made sure the blood spilled today belonged to the Red Mask. It was time to end it all.

They had reached a far corner of Blüdhaven, leaving the inner city behind, and the smell of oil and dirty sea water reminded Jason of Gotham harbor in the worst possible way. But he had little choice, the harbor quarter of Blüdhaven the only part of the city Jason knew how to navigate – any idea for how to lure his asshole-self into a trap.

The roof beneath his boots was paved, the air still heavy and warm. Jason could feel the coiled tension in his own muscles, his breathing loud in the enclosed space of the helmet.

Red Mask was coming closer. And Jason had only one chance.

“Hey, asshat, why don’t we fight this out like… two versions of the same man? Just our fists and toys, without any of the big guns!”

Red Mask didn’t answer when he jumped onto the roof Jason was waiting on. The man was out of breath, his chest rising, the flushed scared face visible even from where Jason stood. He was grateful for his own helmet, since Jason knew that he didn’t look any better, long sprints like these were never really his strength.

It was warm, the cut on his arm stung, and Jason wanted for this to be over. He wanted to leave this godforsaken city behind before the assholes that called themselves his family noticed his presence. It sucked that he knew this would not be the end.

It sucked because Jason knew that even now, even after all that had happened between him and Bruce, he would still help the man. He would still try and safe his Batman. And that meant ringing the bells of St. Clements and warning Bruce of this threat on his life.

He was sick of this invisible thread that bound him to Gotham and its heroes.

He was sick of it – and yet he complied.

“What do you want, boy?”

Red Mask sounded like Jason. Red Mask sounded like Willis.

Jason wanted to do nothing more than punch his teeth in.

“I want a battle fair and square. You know, some honor between two street rats from different sides of the Universal Barrier!”

The warehouse they were standing on was large, and there were at least a hundred feet separating them, but Jason knew how fast that could change. He knew how easily the tides could turn.

Red Mask didn’t seem to be impressed by Jason’s offer, his stride that of a man who could fight just as well as he could kill:

“I will let you know that I don’t ever play fair – a little gift from you to me. Followed by a little fuck you, of course.”

The bullets hit the ground before Jason’s feet, sending chips of pavement flying into the air. But they didn’t hit Jason. They couldn’t hit him, since Jason had counted on Red Mask not taking him up on his offer from the beginning. No one should ever say that Jason didn’t know himself.

He had jumped up in the air before Red Mask had even finished pulling the trigger. He landed in a handspring, closer to his opponent, before rolling sideways, his guns ready – his bullets sending Red Mask stumbling back.

He might not be able to pierce Red Mask’s suit, but he sure as hell could make him fall.

“Ah, I see. You are clever, little me. A clever little fuck. I am sure Batman was more than happy to take you in and fuck with your head. Such a good soldier boy. Such a brave little follower. Such a nice little toy. Did he throw you away once you were no longer useful as well?”

No.

Something in Jason splintered. He could hear it crack, the shock of pain reverberating in his head. In his soul.

 _No_ …

He wouldn’t let this man push his buttons. He wouldn’t let the green swallow his vision. He wouldn’t lose control.

He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t. _He wouldn’t_ …

He did.

The green drowned out every doubt he might have had. Jason attacked with guns blazing. It wasn’t his fault if the Red Mask would die. It wasn’t his fault if more blood than necessary would be spilled today…

Red Mask had only himself to blame.

Jason’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He stared at their iron grip on the steering wheel of the car he had hotwired, he stared at the white of his knuckles, the tremors that wouldn’t cease.

He very deliberately didn’t stare at the slumped and beaten form of the Red Mask on the seat next to him.

Fuck.

He had lost control.

Shit.

**Fuck.**

He hadn’t lost it like that in ages. He had it under control, normally. The Lazarus pit no longer claimed him like it used to, no longer tinged his every thought green, his very being violent. And yet…

And yet Red Mask had pushed his buttons in just the right combination. Had cracked the code to make Jason splinter. Break apart.

Jason was just happy that Red Mask had still been breathing when he wrestled back the control over his body.

He couldn’t deal with the implications of killing himself. He shouldn’t have to.

And yet his body wouldn’t stop shaking.

But Jason had a plan, as shitty as it might be. Get the Red Mask to the Cave, leave before anyone could spot him, leave before he had to see Bruce’s face, and let this fucked up dimension travel thing be someone else’s problem.

He could do that.

He would do that.

He just had to make sure that the car didn’t crash before he reached Gotham, before he reached the city that had birthed and destroyed him.

The city that had killed and reborn him.

He had thought being in Blüdhaven was bad, had thought the feeling of sticky familiarity and pain had been stifling in the city his _brother_ liked to call his, but nothing compared to Gotham.

Nothing ever did, really.

He noticed every part that had stayed the same in his absence with the nausea of nostalgia and everything that changed with the pain of missed opportunity.

He was back. And he wanted to leave as soon as was humanly possible.

He was back. And he wanted to stay until his body would become one with the dirt on the streets once more.

The city was messing with his head, the green still bubbling in his veins, and Jason could do nothing but hope that his little stunt earlier would stay the only one for the night. That he wouldn’t burn another bridge, that he wouldn’t beat someone else bloody with his bare fists.

The entrance to the Cave opened when Jason typed in his code, and he couldn’t quell his surprise when no alarm accompanied his drive into the inner sanctuary of the Bat-clan.

Bruce had thrown Jason away. He had made it more than clear just what he thought about Jason’s plan regarding the Iceberg-Lounge and the Penguin, had yelled at him and screamed.

And when Jason still hadn’t cowered before the man that had once upon a time been his father, Bruce had declared him no longer his son.

It shouldn’t have hurt like it did.

Jason hadn’t seen himself as the son of Batman in ages, hadn’t lived in this weird fantasy land Dick liked to delude himself with, in which all of them were just one big happy family. Jason knew that they were fucked up. He knew that they could barely be called a family at all.

But being thrown out of it, being declared family-less, had hurt worse than the Joker’s crowbar.

And the pain had only grown worse when no one else had said anything.

Jason had gone home that day, lost and desolate and despaired, and he had waited for a call, for Dick to tell him that they would shit on Bruce, for Tim or Duke or Steph to remind him that family was more than just Bruce’s word.

But that never happened.

There had been no call. There had been only silence.

And now Jason was back in the Cave he had sworn himself to never return to.

The light sensors turned on when Jason parked the car, the night already turning into morning, the Cave silent in the twilight hours of the day.

It still smelled the same, the fragrance of water, guano, and machine oil heavy when Jason opened the door of the car, ready to pull the unconscious form of Red Mask into one of the holding cells.

It smelled like his childhood. It smelled like every good and bad thing that had ever happened to him.

His steps were loud when he started dragging the body across the Cave. Jason knew that Bruce had been alerted of his presence the moment Jason typed in his code, he knew that there had never been any chance at all to leave before anyone could spot him, but he hadn’t quite quelled the hope yet, that he would manage to leave before anyone confronted him.

He didn’t want to fight anymore tonight. He wanted a bed, a hot shower, and a good book that would drown out all the unwelcome thoughts.

He didn’t need a reminder that he was no longer a part of this family as well. This night had already been shitty enough.

His luck held out until he finally reached the holding cells.

Jason was currently trying to remember the override codes, Red Mask propped against the wall, when he heard the familiar _tap tap tap_ of Alfred’s careful steps. It seemed as if he had been found out after all.

“Hi Alfie.”

He wasn’t surprised to see that Bruce was standing next to Alfred, both of them dressed in PJs and bathrobes. Bruce never made a noise while walking and Alfred didn’t come down into the Cave without Bruce to accompany him.

“Jason.”

It was Bruce who answered, but Alfred who continued, sending a chastising look in Bruce’s direction:

“Master Jason, my boy, what is going on here?”

“I…”

Red Mask chose that exact moment to wake up, the change in his breathing pattern alerting all of them to the fact. Fucking Bats, all of them.

“Hn…”

“Jason, who is that?”

Bruce – no, Batman – was the one asking the question this time, and Jason hated himself when he answered. Once a Robin, always a Robin:

“Red Mask. Alternate Jason Todd. Attacked me in the Blüd out of fucking nowhere. You don’t happen to know anything about that, do you?”

Jason knew he wasn’t imagining things when Bruce paled and took a step back. The shift in pallor and stance had only been miniscule, but Jason wasn’t blind. He had spent too many years learning to read even the smallest of hints and tells in the hopes of becoming a better partner, a better Robin, that he could still effortlessly read the man that had been his dad once even now, years later.

He needed distance.

Jason could already feel himself fray. Could feel himself wanting to forgive even the unforgiveable.

He couldn’t let that happen. He owned it to himself to not _let that happen._

Instead he shifted, crossing his arms in a sign of defiance. It was childish. It was the only thing he could do.

“B? What the fuck is going on here?”

Jason couldn’t bring himself to call Bruce by his name. Or by his moniker. Both felt too close to home. Both were too intertwined with things he wanted and yet could never have. And B was better than calling him Bastard, which might have been fitting, but would make Alfred raise his eyebrow in distaste.

And it was always just Bruce Jason had a conflict with. If he had been given the chance to just move to a small English cottage with Alfred and a flock of sheep, Jason would have taken it in a moment’s notice as a kid. Hell, he would still say yes without even a hint of hesitation should Alfred ask.

But, no, Jason had lost his chance for a happy ending the moment he cut off the head of the first drug lord that crossed his path as the Red Hood.

And he couldn’t even really say that he regretted it.

It was just who he was now. It was just the life he had to deal with.

“There has been an incidence a few weeks ago… I promise you, that I will explain everything soon, but before I can do that, we need to get him into the holding cell. Alfred? Get the medical equipment. You did quite the number on him…”

Bruce took control of the situation, just as he always did. Alfred had already vanished from Jason’s vision when Bruce grabbed one of Red Mask’s arm, directing an inquiring look at Jason, as if he wanted to know when Jason would be ready to finally help, to finally be useful. It grated on his nerves, it irked his tender heart, already rubbed raw and bloody from all that had happened tonight, and it made Jason snap:

“Yeah, well, I don’t see you asking me how I am. Because that fucking bastard almost succeeded in killing me, so you better be grateful that there was a body left that I could bring to you.”

When he had been little, his teachers had always said that Jason had a temper, and that one day it would get the best of him. But none of them had ever said, that it wasn’t Jason’s fault that he had only ever been hurt when he showed something besides anger. None of them had ever acknowledged that every angry child was angry for a reason.

That every angry young adult had been burned by the world beyond recognition.

“Jason, not now.”

Never now. Always later.

He pushed the green and the bile away, crouching down to get a good hold on the Red Mask. It didn’t take long for the two of them to dump the man on one of the cots in the holding cell, Bruce and Jason always having one thing in particular in common: Their build and their muscles.

Jason hated how it made both of them look like Willis, hated how everything reminded him of his first abuser. Especially tonight.

When Jason stepped back, he could see that his alternate self had opened his eyes, staring at Jason, before letting his eyes wander. Jason could pinpoint the exact moment, Red Mask spotted Bruce.

It was hard to miss the barring of bloody teeth and the violent flinch that shook Red Mask’s entire body.

Bruce had noticed it too:

“Red Mask. _Jason_. What are you doing here?”

“Wouldn’t you just like to know, Bitch Man? Well, good luck with trying to get me to spill the beans. Your lapdog already tried that without succeeding. But I have to compliment you: You sure taught him how to hit.”

Jason could feel the horror sneak up on him. He didn’t want to be reminded of his breakdown; he didn’t want Bruce to know that the Black Sheep of the family had lost control once more. He was supposed to be better than this.

He had been better than this.

A separate part of Jason wondered how the Red Mask could still talk this much, after Jason had beaten him half to death. How the man could still look at them and taunt, when Jason knew that many of the bones in this body must have been broken.

He wondered how many more he could break before the bastard would finally shut up.

Bruce was silent next to him.

It was the kind of silent Jason feared. Batman was always quiet, always cautious in his movements and actions, but Jason knew, that when Batman grew still… he was furious. And even if he never wanted to admit it, Jason was afraid of a Batman that angry.

“Red Mask. What are you doing here? Why did you come almost a month after-“

The ice in Bruce’s tone sent shivers down his spine, but Jason still noticed that the man had halted, that there had been a word or two missing from the threat that wanted to spill of the Dark Knight’s lips. What had happened a month ago?

Well, since his name had been stricken from the family intern e-mail server, Jason sure as hell didn’t know.

Red Mask was laughing when he answered, his eyes closed, a spray of blood dripping down his chin:

“So that’s where the bastard went. He could have given his little birds a different order than simply to Kill Us before he left. Took us almost a month to burn all of them, derailed our schedule quite a bit.”

“We? Who the fuck are you talking about?”

Jason’s outburst only seemed to amuse Red Mask, the man laughing some more, not caring one bit for the unnatural way in which his chest was moving, or the red seeping through the white button down.

“Jason, calm down.”

But Jason didn’t want to calm down. He wanted answers. It was easy to shrug Bruce’s hand away, and it was even easier to step closer to Red Mask, to bury his hands in the hair that was so familiar and so foreign and pull the head back, until the Red Mask was choking on his own blood and laughter.

“Tell me what the fuck is going on! And you leave me alone, B! He wants to kill you! That’s his grand plan! That’s why I am here, for fuck’s sake!”

Jason knew that all sense had left him, that anger and green and hurt and nostalgia all colored his words, his actions, but that didn’t mean that he could stop.

Red Mask’s answer sounded hazy through the blood thrumming in his ears, through the whirring of the helmet. Jason hadn’t dared to take it off since he had first spotted the Red Mask. His last defense. His last protection.

But he still heard it:

“Who said that I am the only one here?”

He heard it, just as he heard Bruce next to him whisper a name:

“Damian.”

And ice replaced every ounce of anger Jason had flowing through his veins. Ice at the prospect of the Brat being in danger. The Brat possibly being dead.

The laughter of Red Mask – as Bruce and Jason turned around, pushing past Alfred and the med kit – did nothing to calm Jason down.

No, it only made the chill spread faster. No, it only became one with the laughter of the clown that still lived in the back of his mind, the echo of pain and torture and a crowbar hitting flesh.

The sound that never left, no matter how hard he tried, no matter how far he ran.

There would be no one stopping Jason from killing the Red Mask should another Robin meet his end tonight.

There would be nothing Jason wouldn’t do to avenge one of his own. Even if it meant losing his family for real.

Even if it meant never coming back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... we will see each other next week to find out what Damian has to say regarding all this :D


	9. Watercolor - Damian - Bruce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian Wayne was a master of secrets.  
> That fact alone should surprise no one, he had been raised and trained by the best, after all. But Damian knew that at least some of his secrets would shock his family to the core should they ever find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome back to another round of I Am Hurting These Kids :D  
> Thanks to all my readers!!! I am happy to have you!! <3
> 
> Warnings: Damian Wayne being very sad and touch-starved, Past Child Abuse, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms 
> 
> **Bookmarks, Comments, and Kudos make me extremely happy!! <3**

Damian Wayne was a master of secrets.

That fact alone should surprise no one, he had been raised and trained by the best, after all. But Damian knew that at least some of his secrets would shock his family to the core should they ever find out.

If they ever cared to find out.

Damian had realized rather quickly that most of them were blind as moles when it came to him. It was quite disappointing for a family of detectives, really. And a bit painful as well.

One of these secrets was his art.

It hadn’t been a secret once upon a time.

Once upon a time Ravi had taught him how to love the gentle strokes of a paint brush, and how to find calm in the tender movements of coal dancing across a page.

And then Damian had made a mistake. And Grandfather had made Ravi pay for it.

Once upon a time Damian had decided still to share his art again, even after Ravi, even though he already knew that it would only bring pain. He had shown it to Richard, and the man had smiled and laughed and encouraged him. Richard had praised him for every painting, for every thought he could portray with nothing more but a brush and a canvas.

And then Damian had made a mistake. And Father had seen his more gruesome sketches. And Richard was shot in the head and forgot all of them.

Forgot Damian.

**Art was Damian’s first secret, but mostly because there was no one left who remembered that he loved it.**

Love was another one of his secrets and Damian knew it only existed because everyone thought him to be colored in hatred.

Damian loved his animals. He loved Titus and Alfred, and Batcow, and Goliath, and the two street cats he cared for when he was out on patrol as Robin, adeptly named Peter and Jackson.

But that was not the secret. No, everyone always said that Damian loved the animals more than his family. But that wasn’t true. Or at least not the whole truth.

He loved them differently. 

Animals were easy for him to understand. It was easy to tell when Alfred wanted to play and when Alfred wanted to sleep. It was obvious when Titus wanted a walk and when he wanted cuddles.

It was easy to love them and feel understood. It was easy to feel warm when they pressed their furry heads against his arm or when they purred, or wagged their tails, or grunted in satisfaction.

Humans were messier. _So much messier_.

But that didn’t mean that Damian loved them any less. It was just _different._

Loving your family had very little to do with the media’s concept of love, Damian knew. Loving your family was a duty, one that Damian felt like a burden sometimes, one that pressed down on him even if he just wanted to be free.

Because Damian knew all about duty. And he knew all about the disappointment that followed if you didn’t live up to the path that was set for you.

But, no, Damian loved his family. All of them.

It might have taken him a few years, but he knew that once they wore the crest of the Bat, they were connected to him. Belonged to him. To Father. To their family.

Family was duty. _Love was duty_.

You couldn’t blame Damian for searching for the easy love of animals sometimes, when it became too much to work for his Father’s attention, too taxing to stand tall when Drake or Cain or Brown or Gordon were once again better than him.

When Richard once again couldn’t even remember him.

Damian loved his family. He would die and kill and fight for them until his last breath. His Grandfather might not have taught him much… but he taught him what honor meant. What family meant. What duty meant.

**Damian Wayne’s second secret was that he loved his family – and that none of them would ever know just how much.**

Another one of his secrets was the truth about touch.

Damian had heard them talk about him, had read his Father’s files describe him as violent and touch-repulsed, had known from a very young age that touch worked differently in the world of his Father. In the world of his family.

He had been surprised the first time Richard had hugged him – but not because he didn’t know what a hug was, but because he hadn’t counted on a man raised by the Bat to offer him comfort like that. The Batman was cold after all, a tactician and master of strategy and pure force that didn’t need other humans – or human emotions.

Damian knew what hugs were. He knew how cuddling worked, and that platonic and frequent touch were important for the growth of a child. He also knew that sometimes pain went hand in hand with touch, and that that might just be a fact of life. At least for him.

But his Father barely touched him. He patted his shoulder when he was proud, and offered short squeezes of comfort that could barely be described as affection when Damian was upset. But more often than not when his Father touched him, it was during a spar.

Damian cared for those moments of contact almost as much as he craved the tender ones.

He liked the exchange of blows, the warmth that flooded his body when he was allowed to move freely and viciously without fearing for his life. He liked the feeling of another person being close enough to touch.

He almost liked the feeling of punches landing on his skin. Never painful, just hard enough for Damian to know that he wasn’t alone. To know that he existed.

Damian was a warrior. He could live without hugs and cuddles, substituting them with hits and kicks and pain.

But he missed them. He craved them. And he hated that no one else could see it.

Maybe that was another reason why he loved his animals so much. All of them offered comfort whenever Damian asked for it, all of them lent their warmth when Damian was feeling cold.

Drake had only flinched back when Damian had made the mistake of offering him a hug. And maybe that was Damian’s fault as well, maybe he shouldn’t have done that, maybe this was the punishment for his past sins. But that hadn’t made it hurt any less.

Cain offered hugs sometimes, but Damian knew that she didn’t mean it, knew that her attempts at comforting him were foolish at best, coming from a place of misplaced duty and guilt.

And he might crave affection, but he hadn’t fallen far enough to take pity as a source of comfort. At least not yet.

It was probably only a matter of time. Especially now.

Especially with a new assassin in the house, and Richard haunting the halls of the Manor again.

**Damian Wayne’s third secret was that he liked to be touched – but he had no idea how to get the comfort he needed without also asking for pain.**

Damian had another secret as well… only that it was no secret at all. It was just a harsh truth, with all the consequence that brought with:

Damian Wayne was not important enough to be remembered.

Father had forgotten him, after all, leaving Damian hanging and drowning and flailing. And Father might have gotten his memories back, but Damian would never forget the feeling of looking into his Father’s eyes and seeing no recognition at all.

Damian had died before, but the lack of _something_ in his Father’s gaze had almost hurt more, had almost destroyed him completely.

On some days the memories of losing his entire family – his entire purpose – were so strongly tied to that moment of no recollection, that Damian couldn’t recall if it had been worse than dying, to know that his Father didn’t remember him. That his brother was dead. That Damian was alone.

But Father had gotten his memories back – only for Richard to lose them.

Only for the man who was almost as much – if not more – of a father to Damian as Batman to forget him as well.

But where Father had been without his memories for a couple of months, getting them back fully and swiftly, Richard had remained Ric – _what a ludicrous name_ – for almost a year.

Richard hadn’t known him at all for ten months and twelve days, and Damian had counted every single one of them as the loneliest day of his life.

Because Richard was gone, but not really, because Father had kept Damian from hunting Ric down and bringing him home, because Cain had grown silent, Drake distant, and Todd not to be seen by any of them at all.

Damian had met loneliness and solitude before, but they never hurt him like this.

Damian knew what it meant to suffer – but the truth of not being worth remembering just hurt too much.

**His last secret wasn’t a secret at all, Damian only wished it was.**

Damian stared at the paper in front of him, at the sketch he had been working on for the last three hours, at the smudged stain that ruined it all – and he felt like crying.

There were so many secrets balled up inside of him, so many truths he never dared to speak clogging his mind, that it was overwhelming to just exist.

It was lonely in his room in the Manor. It was lonely, being this person called Damian Wayne.

He wasn’t allowed out on patrol, since his spine had been acting up the night prior, and now his body wouldn’t let him sleep – and Damian, foolish as he was, had dared to hope that creativity would grace him instead.

And it had.

His sketch showed the penthouse him and Richard had lived in during the man’s stint as Batman, with the entire family spread throughout the scene. He had drawn Richard standing by the counter of their open kitchen, a cup of coffee in his hand and a smile on his face, Pennyworth next to him, with a relaxed slump to his shoulders. Todd and Cain were also in the picture, both of them sitting on the couch and annoying each other while they played some sort of video game or another. Thomas was standing behind the two of them, only his back visible from the angle Damian had chosen. He had drawn Drake sitting at the kitchen table, a look of exasperation on his face as he stared in the direction of Todd and Cain, instead of focusing on the laptop in front of him. Next to Drake was Father, working alongside his… _son_ , deep concentration visible on his face.

It might have been one of his best works yet – the scene never happening like this in real life, Damian building it all up from references and old photos and memories – if it weren’t for one small thing.

_No._

Two small things.

One, Damian knew that it was all fantasy. That his family would never be like this. That his drawing would always just stay the delusion of a little kid.

And two, the stain that had been Damian himself ruined the entire picture just as he ruined the entire family.

It was an accident. He had been proud of this sketch, had already planned on coloring it, and maybe gifting it to Richard for his next birthday, when he noticed that there was one person missing from the picture.

He had forgotten to draw himself.

And his attempt to change that – his attempt to include himself in this scenery of wholesomeness and family – had only destroyed it all.

The drawing was ruined now, and there was nothing Damian could do besides trying not to cry.

It was early morning, and soon enough he would have to hide his art equipment away, in an effort to act as if he had slept last night. Soon enough, Pennyworth would barge into his room and demand that Damian got ready for school. He would have to put on his uniform and tie his tie, and act as if he was alright.

And the worst thing was, that his family would believe him.

Father wouldn’t even glance at him over the morning paper, Pennyworth busy in the kitchen, and… and Talon would stare at him with eyes so cold and dead, Damian wished Father would just have let the corpse keep on rotting in the holding cell.

That was another thing Damian had no idea how to deal with: Talon.

There was a breach in the borders of the multiverse, and instead of taking care of it like he was supposed to, Batman had invited the killer into their midst.

And now Talon, who had probably murdered hundreds, sat down with them during breakfast, not eating the eggs and toast Pennyworth presented him with.

All while wearing the face of the person Damian missed most.

Talon wasn’t Richard, Damian knew that. He knew that Richard remembered him again, that the man loved him, even if he never told him that anymore, and he knew that Richard had chosen to help Talon instead of disposing him.

But that didn’t mean that Damian wouldn’t flinch back whenever he found the cold eyes of a killer trailing him. Damian was more than aware of the fact that Talon was a killer, a murderer, _a monster_. He could see it in Talon’s eyes – he could see it in his own and in those of Todd, should the man ever take off that stupid helmet of his.

Damian knew a killer when he saw one. He was one too, after all.

(and sometimes he could even forget the burn of shame whenever he saw Cain – whenever he noticed that her past sins didn’t taint her like they tainted him)

Father had invited this monster into their home. Richard had let it out of its cage.

But Damian was the one that ruined the family.

It was unsafe – Damian was wary in his own home, was on his toes wherever he went, always waiting for an attack, always waiting for violence and pain to prove him right.

It wasn’t his fault that he had plans for every contingency hidden away in his desk should the Talon ever turn on them. It wasn’t his fault – it was the only logical thing to do. He would be prepared for the worst.

If his Father wasn’t ready to act, well, then Damian was more than willing to do it for him.

Damian missed the good old times. Back when he had known that his Father was right, that Batman would always do the good thing, the _right thing_. Back when Richard had been a part of his life, annoying him with love and affection and care.

Richard had come back – but Damian couldn’t shake the feeling of wrongness whenever he looked into the blue eyes of his mentor. They had looked at him in confusion and pain for so long, the idea that they could love him again seemed utterly laughable. Ridiculous.

Especially since Damian wasn’t dumb. He was a liar, a secret keeper, a killer, but he wasn’t an idiot.

He knew that not everything was alright again, even now, with Richard remembering him again, with Richard returning to the family somewhat.

He had seen the prescription medicine hidden in Richard’s bag when he visited, even if he hadn’t managed to read the names of the pills Richard swallowed twice a day.

He had seen the lost look in Richard’s eyes that sometimes just overcame him, draining the color from his skin and every thought from his head.

He had seen the scar that wouldn’t vanish, not even with the help of the Lanterns, not even with Richard desperately trying to comb his still short hair over it.

Something was still utterly, utterly wrong with him, but Damian was in no position to find out what. No, he was locked in his room, making sure that no assassin would get the drop on him, while his entire body ached from phantom pains and old injuries.

His eyes found the sketch in front of him once more, the ugly mark where his eraser had failed to successfully save the picture he was drawing, mocking him. His attempt at trying to be something he was not a bleak warning.

Damian Wayne loved his family and he knew what duty was, but he wasn’t sure if there was a place for him at all.

Not with Father so distant, Richard so lost, Cain so silent, Drake not here at all… and Todd abandoned for a sin Damian had committed as well.

The universe must have been listening as well, because just as Damian contemplated the status of his family, a light pulsed at the other end of his room. For a short moment it was so bright, Damian had to close his eyes, and when he looked again… the light was gone.

Instead a tall figure greeted him.

Next to Damian’s bed stood a man – barely a man, more of a child, Drake’s age perhaps – with a regal face and an aristocratic nose. With eyes so green they looked like poisoned apples.

With eyes so green they looked like the Lazarus Pit.

Damian couldn’t take his eyes of the stranger as his hands scrambled for _something_ , for a weapon to defend himself with. He had counted on danger coming from the outside, he had counted on Talon attacking him inside the Manor – but not inside his room. And… and now this man was standing in front of him, and Damian knew that danger had come for him.

Locking it out had never really worked out that well for him after all.

The man was smiling, when he noticed Damian’s fist closing around the handle of a dagger, and his voice was silky smooth, so familiar when he addressed him:

“Huh, you must be Damian Wayne. It is nice to meet you.”

“Who. Are. You.”

 _Please, no_ … Damian had the horrible feeling that he already knew just who that was. He wasn’t dumb. He knew his Grandfather. He knew his Mother. He had died by her hand. By the Heretic’s hand. By the hand of his clone.

No, not again.

He didn’t want to die again.

Not so soon. Not now. Not before he had a chance to get his family back.

“I am Ra’s al Ghul, the Demon’s Head… once upon a time I was known as Damian Wayne.”

No.

No.

No, this had to be a lie. This had to be wrong. This couldn’t be happening.

He could only watch as Ra’s… as another Damian stepped closer towards him. The… Demon’s Head looked like him, now that Damian could do nothing but stare. He looked like a slightly older, more sophisticated version of the Damian currently living in Wayne Manor, with his dark hair neatly trimmed, and his robes fitted to the slim body of a boy in his late teens.

If Damian had to guess, he would say that the Demon’s Head was maybe nineteen, and already taller than Richard and Drake and all of the girls. He had always wanted to know just how tall he would grow one day, if he would surpass his Father in height and stature or not, but he had never wanted to find out like this.

This other Damian kept looking around, his eyes finding everything Damian wanted to keep hidden. It was horrifying to watch this… this Demon’s Head study his artwork, his collection of decorative swords, his favorite Gotham Knights hoodie. It was even more terrifying to watch the man smile when he noticed a picture of Damian with his Father, both of them grinning as they climbed the hill behind Wayne Manor. Richard had been the one to take the picture, joking the entire time they had been out there hiking.

It was one of Damian’s favorite memories. And his favorite picture of his Father. Maybe because it was the only one Damian owned in which the man was smiling.

“We never did that. My Bruce Wayne and I, I mean. We used to play soccer on the field, instead. Timmy, from the Drake Estate, liked to join us. He adored Father. It was a good childhood.”

Something was wrong, Damian’s brain noticing too many things all at once.

The fond tone in the Demon’s Head’s voice when he spoke of Drake, the fact that he said soccer, all American, instead of football like Damian normally did, the fact that he recalled a childhood with Father Damian never had…

This was no clone.

No, this was worse.

“What are you doing here?”

Damian hated the fact that his voice shook, that he could feel tremors run up and down his spine, that he knew that should it come to a fight, he would have no chance at all.

Damian hated the fact that he felt weak. That he _was_ weak.

“Would you believe me if I told you that this is just a courtesy visit?”

“No.”

“Hah! I was always a clever little boy. No, this is not just a visit, is it? This is Step One in a plan so grand, you are too small to understand it.”

The Demon’s Head stood in front of him now, towering over Damian, who hadn’t managed to leave his desk chair behind at all while the Demon’s Head had roamed through his room. Damian was weak. A coward. An idiot.

And he would pay for his weakness with his life. Again.

But instead of unsheathing a sword, the Demon’s Head stepped even closer, every movement sending another spike of terror through Damian. He wasn’t even sure if he was breathing anymore. All he could see was the robe of the Demon’s Head, all he could smell the fragrance of old books and lemon, all he could feel the thrumming of his own heart.

And then the Demon’s Head touched him. Hugged him. Pulled him closer. Until Damian’s face was pressed against the torso of his older self, until warm hands pressed him against a living body.

“I will show you the world, Damian Wayne. And then I will show you how to burn it down as well.”

Damian wanted to run. Needed to run. But his legs wouldn’t move, everything numb and dead to the world. He wanted to run. He needed to run. But his body wouldn’t listen, everything too far away, too far removed.

Damian wanted to run.

He didn’t.

* * *

“Who said that I am the only one here?”

The words made Bruce stop. He had been moving forward in an effort to stop Jason from strangling the Red Mask, when the man in question chocked them out, through bloody teeth and breathless laughter.

For a moment Bruce toyed with the idea of ignoring them, before his brain started working again, kicking into overdrive.

Talon had appeared a month ago in Dick’s apartment, a maximum of twenty feet away, while the man came home from a long Blüdhaven patrol.

Red Mask has appeared a few hours ago – Bruce needed to ask Jason for a detailed report later – also in Blüdhaven, but probably closer to Jason than to Dick’s apartment. Probably, being the operative word.

Bruce had no data. He had only presumptions and the information from Dick, who had not been the most forthcoming in his reports those last few weeks. Months. A year, really.

What did he know though? He knew that Talon had been close to Dick and Jason had been near the Red Mask when _it_ happened.

He knew that the Red Mask had said that he hadn’t come alone.

When Bruce had traveled to Earth 49311 he had met all four of his sons. Two of these twisted versions were here now. Two of them still missing.

Damian and Tim.

Joker Junior and the Demon’s Head.

There was nothing Bruce could do for Tim, if it was truly Joker Junior that had breached the dimensional border, the young man currently sleeping in his apartment miles away. If he was sleeping. Bruce still knew his son well enough to be aware of the fact that it was just as likely that Tim was still sitting hunched over his laptop typing away on one project or the other.

But Tim was out of his reach, Bruce pushing the worry and concern away until he could get a chance to deal with it in a productive manner. But that meant…

“Damian.”

Bruce could feel Jason next to him stiffen, could feel the eyes of his son burning into his back, but Bruce had already turned around, had already started running by the time Jason followed, by the time the Red Mask could laugh uninterrupted again.

The Cave moved past them in a blur, Bruce passing Alfred, the computer, his equipment, before he finally reached the staircase leading back into the Manor, closely followed by Jason.

He wasn’t wearing the right clothes for this, his slippers making it hard to run, the bathrobe in the way of the long strides he favored, but Bruce knew, that he was only focusing on this since there was nothing else he could control right now.

Nothing else he could do besides run and think about inane things, until he had Damian hugged close to his chest, making sure that his son was safe.

When Alfred woke him up, to tell him that Jason had been spotted in the Cave, Bruce had had other things to worry about than appropriate clothing. He had been too surprised, too fazed by the fact that _Jason_ was _here_. That Jason had come _home_.

Now he was paying for that decision. For that lapse in judgement.

As if there had ever been any chance at all that whatever situation Jason brought with him wouldn’t demand appropriate clothing.

Their mad dash through the Manor didn’t go unnoticed, Cassandra opening up her door to peak into the hallway. When she saw them, it didn’t take long for her to decide to join their little group, her steps easily overtaking Bruce’s.

It wasn’t far from the Cave to Damian’s room – the boy choosing this room specifically because of that, back when he had first joined them – but it felt as if Bruce would never reach the door. Each step taking minutes, each couple of feet feeling like an eternity. It was the panic speaking, skewing his perception of reality, but Bruce couldn’t care less what was real and what was not. All he needed to do was reach his son’s room and make sure that he was alright.

He couldn’t lose another kid.

_He wouldn’t lose another kid._

He just had to believe in that and keep on running.

Everything would be alright. He would reach Damian’s room, and his son would be sleeping, his kid would be alright. Damian would wake up and be mad at the disruption of his beauty sleep and Bruce would hug him, overcome with happiness and relief.

Everything would be alright.

Now Bruce only needed to start believing it.

The door was closed when Bruce finally came to a halt in front of it, Cass already waiting for him, Jason stopping behind him only moments later. _The door was closed_. It eased none of the panic building inside of him.

“Damian?”

His voice was cautious, so unlike him, when he slowly pushed the door open, one inch at a time. Cassandra and Jason had fallen in position behind them, not even years of anger and fights and disagreements being able to disrupt the efficient way all of them worked together.

There was no sound coming from Damian’s room. No answer. The lights were turned off.

It was too dark. The day was nearing its morning hours, light was supposed to slowly bleed into the room through the curtains Damian never quite managed to close. But, no, the room was bathed in darkness.

Maybe Damian had actually closed the curtains for once. Maybe everything was still alright.

There was no part left of Bruce that actually believed that anymore.

All three of them were deadly silent, as Bruce’s hand found the light switch next to the door.

“Damian?”, Bruce asked again. But there was still no answer greeting him. No muffled groan, or stifled yawn.

There was only the empty room in front of them.

Damian’s bed was made, the boy never touching it for the entire night, his clothes and belongings sorted in the way Bruce had come to expect over the last few years of knowing his son. Nothing was out of order; nothing was out of the ordinary.

Except for the fact that it was almost 6am and his son was supposed to be sleeping in said bed, and the curtains were supposed to be open just a bit, and the art supplies were supposed to be hidden in the closet Damian thought Bruce knew nothing about.

Everything was normal – except for the fact that nothing was.

Jason was the first one to step into the room, not even all his time away curing him from his rashness. Cass followed, only leaving Bruce frozen in the doorframe, afraid that everything would shatter and this would become reality, should he dare to move.

“What the hell?”

It was Jason’s voice that forced him into motion, his… son – maybe? Hopefully? One day again? – standing at Damian’s desk, with a contemplative look on his face.

For a moment Bruce thought about joining Jason in his search for clues, but then he thought better of it: Jason wouldn’t want him that close. Not after what happened a year ago. Not after what happened only an hour ago.

Instead Bruce moved toward Cass, who had chosen to inspect the curtains, forcefully pulling them back just as Bruce came to a stop at her side.

Natural light flooded the little room and dread turned to lead in Bruce’s stomach.

The window behind the heavy black-out curtains was open. And Bruce didn’t have to be a genius to figure out just what had happened.

“Did Damian run… away?”

Cass sounded doubtful, but confused, and for a moment Bruce wished it was that easy. Wished it was just Damian running away to Blüdhaven to pout at Dick’s apartment until Bruce could muster up and say sorry. Wished it was like it had been before. When all of them had still been okay. Maybe not good. But okay.

It was never that easy.

“I don’t think so, sis.”

It was Jason who answered, a piece of drawing paper in his hand. Bruce hid his surprise when the young man stepped closer, brushing Bruce’s personal bubble without as much as a flinch – but then he saw the paper. The drawing Jason had found.

It was beautiful.

It was breathtaking.

It was awe inspiring.

Bruce wanted to throw up. Because in the corner of this exceptional sketch of his family – all of them together, all of them happy – was a smudge. And beneath that smudge a word was scratched into the paper by a fingernail. The word was simple. The word was short.

The word doomed them all.

Beneath the smudge on this beautiful drawing, Damian had written _one word_ , and the word read: **H E L P**.


	10. Monsters at Night - Demon's Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ah, that was the reason Damian had vaguely recognized the man. The Court of Owls mission. Talon had vanished a month ago, simultaneously to a break-in in one of Damian’s warehouses. More precisely, the warehouse Damian had stored all of the stolen tech from his Justice League operation in.   
> The Demon’s Head didn’t believe in coincidences, and neither did Damian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome back!  
> I just wanted to say that I love every single one of you......
> 
> Warnings: Bad People Being Bad People, Unnamed Character Death, Demon's Head Not Great Opinions Regarding Mental Health
> 
> **Comments, Kudos and Bookmarks make me extremely happy!!! <3 **

Damian looked at himself in the mirror.

It was always a weird sight – two versions of himself overlapping, two sets of memories fighting it out. He took notice of his green eyes, some part of him yelling that they had been a different color once, another one having seven-hundred years’ worth of memories to back up the fact that the Demon’s Head always had this shade of green coloring his eyes.

He liked the feeling of vertigo that overcame him when he stared long enough. The feeling of being only connected to his body via the barest of threads.

There was a knock on the door of his penthouse apartment, and it took him a moment to return, a moment to become one again, instead of two.

“Yes?”

A man entered, no one Damian knew, but someone the Demon’s Head had wanted to see. An assassin, probably. The man was cowering on the floor before Damian’s feet, his shoulders hunched, his eyes never straying further than Damian’s knees.

“You may speak.”

“Thank you, master. The last assassin returned from their mission. All Talons of the Court of Owls lay slain.”

Ah, that was the reason Damian had vaguely recognized the man. The Court of Owls mission. Talon had vanished a month ago, simultaneously to a break-in in one of Damian’s warehouses. More precisely, the warehouse Damian had stored all of the stolen tech from his Justice League operation in.

The Demon’s Head didn’t believe in coincidences, and neither did Damian.

The attacks of countless Talons, most of them only thawed from their icy coffins for this one mission – a distraction if Demon’s Head had ever seen one – had only confirmed what Damian already knew: Talon had been the robber.

And Talon might not be as stupid as most people thought it to be, but it still wasn’t a great tactical thinker. Because Talon had left behind what it came for. It had left behind the gun that would send Damian and Jason on a fun multiverse trip to hunt down Batman.

And now they would hunt down Talon as well.

Neither Damian nor the Demon’s Head could stand traitors.

It would be fun to kill the unkillable. It would be fun to have dead blood coating his hands.

“Master?”

“You are dismissed.”

_You should have killed him – he talked without permission – he disrespected us_

Damian shook his head. Killing every foot soldier that made a mistake would only bring them harm. He liked to avoid bloodshed where it wasn’t necessary. If only the Demon’s Head would understand that as well.

Damian didn’t think of himself as two people, not really. He was just… two sides of the same coin. He was the Demon’s Head, who liked to make people cry for pain and blood and honor. And he was Damian, who wanted to make Batman scream in pain, Father scream in desperation.

Their methods just varied sometimes, but Damian could live with that.

He lived with that voice for almost two years now after all, and with the whispers of insanity for even longer. Damian had found out firsthand what a Lazarus Pit did to a young and impressionable mind when he was twelve, and Grandfather killed him for the first time because of some perceived misdemeanor or another. He found out many times after that, time and time again, just what rage felt like. Just what death felt like.

At first the green tinting his vision had just been that: Rage and Anger and a hint of Insanity, but with each dip he took in the cursed green liquid, with each death that eroded his memories, Damian could feel something else growing inside of him.

Something older than himself. Maybe even something older than Ra’s al Ghul himself.

And then the time had come, Father messaged him about his plans to destabilize the League of Assassins, and Damian unsheathed his sword in the name of the Bat – in the name of himself.

His sword had pierced Grandfather’s chest, parted it like butter, Damian unbelievably happy. He killed the man who hurt him. He killed the man who had tortured and broken and used him. But with the elation at his actions came something else. Damian had felt something else take up space inside of him.

The ghost of the Pit. The Demon’s Head.

They were one now, after years of fighting together, but sometimes Damian liked to remember that once upon a time there had been two.

That once upon a time he had been Damian Wayne, as well.

Another knock sounded on the door of his penthouse, and Damian sighed. He knew how busy the hours before the launch of an operation were, and, normally, he appreciated that, today, however, he just wanted a moment for himself. A moment to center himself. To separate himself.

But Damian rarely got what he wanted:

“Yes?”

It wasn’t one of his own men that entered, but the Red Mask, dressed in one of his more casual business suits, the disgusting skull mask pressed firmly onto his face, guns hidden underneath his clothes with care others reserved for lingerie.

“You were supposed to be here hours ago.”

The Red Mask didn’t grace him with an answer. Instead he simply joined Damian next to the window he had used as a mirror. Both men were overlooking Gotham now, _their_ Gotham, _their_ city. The silence stretched on for minutes, minutes Damian could have used for more productive things.

Red Mask’s voice was low when he finally spoke:

“I met another one of Talon’s little toys on my way here, hence the delay. But get your panties out of a twist, I did what you asked me to do. Everything is ready.”

Damian knew that Red Mask – that Jason – was the most mentally stable out of his Father’s little pet project rooster. But looking at himself, Damian was also aware of the fact that it didn’t have to mean all that much.

Father had broken all of them successfully, after all, making them the perfect little toys for his game of chess.

It was weird to think about how this alliance of theirs had come together, Father demanding regular updates on the criminal activities all of them engaged in. And after one of these meetings, Jason asked them to stay, even after Father had left the room.

In that very first moment the green threatened to swallow him, Demon’s Head sure that Jason wanted to kill him for the grab on the Red Mask’s territory that had happened the week prior, but then Jason had offered them a plan. Had offered them a way out.

Jason had been the first to overcome his loyalty to Father, even though Damian had already been corrupted by doubt as well. 

It was far harder to convince Talon and Joker Junior, both of them too… mentally challenged to really understand what Father had put them through. But Timmy was not the Joker, and Talon not just _a_ Talon. They, too, had come to understand the horrors done to them.

And then that Other Batman appeared. That bastard from another world. That asshole that had destroyed everything: Their plans. Their future. Their lives.

Demon’s Head had warned him, had told him that they should just slit that imposter’s throat, but Damian had wanted to believe in the words that Other Batman said, he had wanted to hope for a better future just that once.

Well, that hadn’t worked out now, had it?

The Justice League had arrested Batman and for a moment Damian had dared _to believe_ … and then those bastards had pardoned the man, had promised the return of the Batman to the streets of Gotham without consequences.

“We will closely watch the actions of our fellow hero Batman, but our investigation into the matter found no evidence to back up the rumors and accusations thrown around. Batman will return to Gotham shortly”

That had been the official statement.

 _Bullshit_.

Damian wanted to see Father bleed, he wanted to hold his severed head in his hands… but he couldn’t touch _his_ Batman – the Justice League wouldn’t allow it.

All of this was Other Bruce’s fault. He made Damian doubt himself. He made Damian soft and weak and malleable.

Damian would make him pay for that. Demon’s Head was ready to devour him.

But now Timmy thought he would be safer in Arkham instead of the streets, where Batman would be able to act out his revenge for their betrayal. And Talon had decided to abandon their cause, because that Other Bastard had been nice to him _once_.

There were only the Demon’s Head and Red Mask left to act out their revenge. To get what they all so desperately wanted.

How lucky then, that the two of them were the most logical and organized of the bunch.

“Good. I trust you to keep to the plan.”

“Your plan is shit, old man, but sure — let Red Mask play the lure.”

Red Mask sounded amused with himself, no doubt because of the nickname and the fact that he had managed a rhyme.

Damian had no time for this. He was better than this:

“Cut it. You are sure that Joker Junior is safe in Arkham? Batman won’t get him?”

It was no secret, but Damian was weirdly fond of the crazy shell that had been left after Joker had his fun with Tim. There were vague memories in the back of his mind, from a time before the League, from a time before everything was tinged green, in which Damian had been small – oh, so small – playing with the boy next door.

The nostalgia made him soft, but Damian liked the reminder of a time where Damian Wayne and Timmy Drake had existed, even if the Demon’s Head hated it. They had been friends, back when both of them had still been human. Back when both of them had still been sane.

(Damian didn’t know if Tim remembered him – the Joker was a special kind of crazy after all)

“Batman won’t get him. My men will make sure of that.”

And, weirdly enough, that soothed Damian. Red Mask only employed the best of the best – not unlike the Demon’s Head – and Damian knew that he could trust Jason with things like guard duty. That didn’t mean that he trusted Jason in general, Damian still had a sense of self-preservation. He knew that once this was over, their territorial fights over smuggling routes would continue. But… sometimes your enemies were your best allies.

“Are you ready?”

“What?”

Damian hadn’t counted on Jason to continue their talk. Normally both of them were more than happy to stare out of a window and brood, each of them lost in their own head, their own trauma, their own perfect plan for bloodshed.

And yet, today of all days, Jason wanted to talk:

“If you’re ready. To see him again. To slit his throat, but this time for real. To finally rid the multiverse of the monster called Batman.”

Jason’s words registered faintly, but it was his own reflection that truly caught his attention.

Damian saw himself. A toddler, happy because Father played with him in the garden. He saw himself. A child, crying because his Father had left him behind. He saw himself. A teenager, bleeding from a deadly wound to the stomach because his Father didn’t care enough to save him.

He saw himself. A young adult, hoping that there was justice in the world because a different version of his Father had promised him so.

He saw himself, betrayed by that very notion.

“I wanted his blood on my hands and sword from the day he dared to break my trust.”

Jason nodded, something contemplating in his gaze. It was weird – most of them wore masks, and yet it was always easy to see what they were thinking:

“I want to meet Alternative Me. I want to see what a Jason Todd looks like that didn’t have to die.”

And here it was, the difference between the Demon’s Head and the Red Mask. Between all of them and Jason. Talon and Joker Junior and Demon’s Head all had lost their humanity at some point during the torture that formed them into what they were now… Red Mask had only redefined it.

“I wouldn’t make any promises. Some things are just constant. Maybe you dying is one of them.”

“Maybe your ugly face is another.”

It was a childish insult, but Demon’s Head couldn’t quite stifle the laughter that escaped him, before he pulled one of his daggers, playing idly with it, knowing that Red Mask was watching. It was a threat, and not even a thinly veiled one.

Red Mask didn’t react verbally to the tension building; he just crossed his arms, focusing on Gotham instead of Damian.

“My, my, I just don’t want you to be disappointed. Calm down, Mask. We don’t need to spill any blood between us.”

“I am nervous.”

You don’t just admit weaknesses. Damian knew that. Jason knew that as well. And yet the Red Mask had done it. He had opened himself up and offered Damian a straight path towards a killing shot.

He was only lucky that Damian rarely went in for the easy kill:

“Oh, I wouldn’t have gathered.”

“Shut up. What if it goes wrong? What if we can’t return or one of the Other Batmen kills us? What if Black Bat and Spoiler aren’t enough for this city?”

“Don’t insinuate that you care for this hellhole. You are better than that.”

“Fuck you, Gotham is my home as well. And just because I want to burn it down, doesn’t mean that I don’t care for it. We might be villains, but we are villains that save the city.”

“You executed twenty guys publicly last week.”

“They deserved it.”

They had. Rapists and murderers, all of them. And yet, Damian still had to smile at the logical and moral fallacies Jason liked to maneuver himself into. The man was better than all of them, and yet one of the worst Gotham had to offer.

Soon everything would start to fall into place. Soon the Demon’s Head and Red Mask would leave this penthouse behind, stepping into a new world, ready to cause some more mayhem. Only this time they wouldn’t have to look out for each other, only this time there was no greater plan – at least not too much of one – besides the pain they wanted to create.

Damian would have been more than happy to let their conversation lull, but Jason found even more questions to ask:

“Why don’t we just kill Batman and be done with it? Why don’t we just jump into Bastard Man’s universe, kill him, and hop on into the next to kill the next asshole dressing up as a furry?”

It was weird to think that Damian was simultaneously older and younger than Jason. That the Demon’s Head had a couple of centuries on this angry, broken man, while Damian Wayne was still almost a decade younger.

They had gone over this plan multiple times over the last month, first when Jason had jokingly offered the plan of killing his Father from a different dimension, and then after they noticed that Talon was missing. That Talon had already done what they had only played with, theoretically.

Damian’s answer to that particular question hadn’t changed in all those weeks, and it was the one thing he wouldn’t compromise on:

“Because I want to create as much pain as possible. I want to make him suffer like all of us have suffered. And don’t worry, I’ll still let you do the killing.”

 _He would_.

Because killing Father would be the easy part. Yes, Damian wanted to see the blood spilled, wanted to see the dismembered corpse, wanted to hold the cold, dead heart of his Father in his hands… but Damian also found that torture worked so much better when it was applied to someone else first.

Red Mask nodded, just as aware of the answer as he had been before he asked his inane question. He hadn’t asked because he had forgotten why, he had asked to calm himself, known words making sure that even in the unknown they would embark on, something would stay the same:

The Demon’s Head’s resolve.

There were worse things to trust in.

“ _Are you ready_?”

This time it was Damian that turned towards Jason, his brow raised. He needed to know. He needed one hundred percent from Jason if they wanted this to work. This mission wasn’t for the weak-willed, or the morally compromised.

Damian had no problem with cutting his loose ends down, should Jason decide to disappoint him now.

Jason might be the best of them – but Damian certainly wasn’t, and he never had any qualms about killing those who stood in his way.

_Kill him – he deserves it – don’t you see? – he doesn’t believe in our plan_

“Oh, I am more than ready. I have a bullet in my gun that has Batman’s name engraved on it. I have wanted to do this since I was sixteen. Get ready to see some brains splatter.”

The unsure tone had vanished completely from Jason’s voice, the only thing left the cocky asshole that liked to terrorize the people living in this city.

Red Mask didn’t work like Damian did. There was truly only one Jason, and there had never been two, but in moments like these Damian wondered, if not all of them had learned how to be more than one. How to be the monster _and_ the man.

Or maybe that was truly just Jason, the rest of them having drowned in the horrors of their own minds long ago.

Sadly, Damian hadn’t yet found a reliable way to read minds and find out for sure.

“Then let’s set the last pieces in motion, shall we?”

Demon’s Head motioned towards the door, and a handful of assassins and engineers stepped in, carrying a crate between them. They had waited for his sign, they had waited for him to be ready. Well, he was.

This was the last thing he had to do:

“Put it down and get to work.”

The men were silent as they did so, Red Mask and Demon’s Head watching. A generator was pulled out of the box, followed by a contraption that looked a lot like a gun and a bit like a horse. It was disturbing to look at. But if Damian’s tests hadn’t lied, if Talon was truly in the world they all wanted to reach so desperately, then this horrible thing would do its job.

Soon enough, the thing was up and running, yellow and green lights reflecting off the walls of the apartment. A portal swirled in front of the great window Jason and Damian had watched the city from only minutes earlier.

It was ready.

“Red Mask?”

“Yes?”

“You will go first. I will follow in half an hour. Make your presence known. And be prepared for a surprise or two. You never know with universe travel.”

“Aw, that almost sounds like you care.”

“You wish.”

With one last wave, Red Mask stepped through the portal, guns ready, suit fitted, and with a plan to kill the Batman ready to go.

Damian watched as the portal closed behind him, the machine only ever letting one of them travel at a time. He turned around towards the small crowd of technicians and assassins. It would be a sad sight to see them go.

But only his most trusted were allowed to know where the Demon’s Head was at any given moment:

“Ravi?”

“Yes, Master?”

“Inform the others of my absence. Plan 8872b will be put in motion. Do not try to contact me. I will be back. You are dismissed.”

“As you please, Master.”

Ravi bowed, the man old and frail and loyal like no other. Ravi was his lieutenant; his second in command, and Damian could not have found a better man for the job than the arts teacher that managed to survive the League. Damian watched as he closed the door behind him, before turning back towards the others who were currently awaiting his orders.

Loyal men were so hard to come by, but the Demon’s Head had to do what the Demon’s Head had to do.

“Thank you all for your services, it has been a pleasure to work with you and the Demon’s Head is smiling fondly upon you in the next world.”

Damian could see the surprise in their faces, and the moment it finally registered what he had just said. But their panic came too late – Damian already raised the handgun he had snatched from Red Mask, shortly before the man has stepped through the portal, and fired.

One shot per person. One bullet per heart. Each of them a hit. Each of them dead center.

This was not a time or place for cruelty – the Demon’s Head was always efficient.

The smell of blood hung heavy in the air when Damian stepped closer to the universe travel gun. Ravi would make sure that the bodies would be adequately disposed of, and all clues to Damian’s disappearance would just stay that: clues.

He knew how to use the machine, and he knew how to take it with him, so he would be able to get from one universe into the next. But he hadn’t been the only one, the men laying slain on the floor, his top technicians, who had spent the last few weeks figuring out just how this gun worked.

It was always sad and distasteful when Damian had to get rid of the good men and women in his employ. But these where the downfalls to a job like this: Damian couldn’t spare everybody, and the Demon’s Head didn’t want to spare anyone at all.

There was blood collecting on the soles of his shoes as he connected the universe travel gun to the generators once more, watching as it powered up. Watching as his goal got closer and closer and closer.

His first step into the new world would be bloody.

What a fitting sign. What a beautifully good omen.

Damian was grinning by the time the portal appeared in front of him, the gun firmly tucked away under the robes he had chosen for today: The proud colors of the League of Assassins. The proud colors of the al Ghuls.

The colors of the Demon’s Head.

_Him._

Damian took the first bloody step through the portal.

The world danced. The world bled.

The world stopped to exist.

_Now, he only needed to find his alternate self._

The world came back into focus.

A children’s room. No. _His childhood bedroom_.

A boy was sitting only a few feet away at a desk, staring at the Demon’s Head, staring at Damian. It didn’t take him long to get his bearings back and recognize just who the universe had brought him to.

Just who was being presented to him like a pig ready for the butcher.

Damian recognized himself, even if he didn’t recognize the clothes the boy was wearing, or the mess of hair that decorated the boy’s head. He knew this room as well, had called it home once upon a time as well, and for a moment the nostalgia overcame him.

This was Wayne Manor. This was home.

This was his alternate self:

“Huh, you must be Damian Wayne. It is nice to meet you.”

Yes, it was so nice to meet him. Demon’s Head was sure it would be even nicer to torture him until he screamed.


	11. Kintsugi - Jason - Cass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason wants to know what the fuck is going on.  
> Cass is ready to break apart to force them to heal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome Back To Another Chapter Of The Mother Dough!  
> I hope you are going to enjoy this!!!
> 
> Warnings: Two implications of sexual abuse/very not funny sexual comments from the Red Mask, Aftermath of Violence

Jason had a vague feeling that he was missing something. Okay, scratch that, Jason _knew_ that he was missing something.

And it wasn’t just the dread pooling in his stomach or the ghosts of day’s past haunting him, that were at fault for that. No, something else was going on.

They were waiting down in the Cave, Steph appearing out of nowhere before Bruce even had a chance to call her, watching as Alfred saved the life of a man Jason wanted to see dead.

The Red Mask didn’t deserve to be saved. He deserved pain and blood and death, but not the gentle touches of Alfred as he cleaned out wounds inflicted by a pit crazy Jason. Not that the bastard hadn’t been asking for it. Not that Jason wasn’t still unsure what the implications were of him killing a version of himself.

Jason did his best to ignore the curious stares both Steph and Cass sent in his direction, focusing instead on every small step Alfred took to ensure the safety of the Red Mask; the man fixated on a medical cod.

It was easier that way.

It was easier to let his thoughts wander and his eyes focus instead of his mind.

It was easier to just watch than to face his demons.

Speaking of demons… the Brat had been gone by the time they reached his room, and Jason hadn’t yet managed to quell his worry. Another Robin in harm’s way. Another child hurt in this insane crusade of Batman.

All of them would die one day. And all of them would die so young.

The only one in this crazy clan of Bat-furries that would reach adulthood and beyond would be Bruce, some bitter part of Jason noticed, and wasn’t that just wonderful, that the only one to grow old would be the one who had brought all this pain upon them.

The child soldiers never survived, but their adult general certainly did.

(not that all of them hadn’t already died once before – not that all of them weren’t already insanely aware of this thing called Death)

Bruce was at the Batcomputer, probably contacting the other idiots that belonged to this family – _never Jason, no longer Jason_ – and it was unbelievably hard not to glance into the man’s direction. Jason wanted to stare, he wanted to ask questions and get answers. He wanted to scream at Bruce and demand an explanation.

But he did none of that.

Now was not the time. The present – _now_ – was all about finding Damian.

_Not now. Always later._

Would he even have noticed if Damian had been kidnapped and Jason hadn’t been in the house?

Would anyone have cared enough to tell him one of these gremlins who had once upon a time called themselves his brothers had been hurt?

The absolute silence that had colored the last year grey told him No. They wouldn’t have called. And why would they? Bruce had ripped the Bat from Jason’s chest, banishing him from the family. Banishing him from the only city he had ever called home.

Gotham belonged to Jason just as much as it belonged to Bruce. Maybe more so, since Jason had grown up on these streets and become one with them, had breathed and lived and survived the dirt that was the Gotham lower class.

The last year had been hell. But Jason hadn’t realized how much of that had stemmed from the fact that he missed this dirt-hole. That he missed the smell of urine and toxic fumes and Batburger fries mixed together in a way only Gotham could manage.

Movement returned Jason rather forcefully to the present, away from the smoke and the smog and into the Batcave.

Not that he wanted to be here anymore than he wanted to be stuck in his memories.

In many ways the Cave was worse.

The Cave was always worse.

Alfred had finished patching up Red Mask, something sorrowful in his eyes:

“You may now ask your questions. And make sure that we get our answers. I want to see Master Damian again in one piece. _Sooner_ rather than later.”

With that the butler stepped away, washing his hands in innocence, knowing that Jason would paint his red. Because Jason would get his answers, Jason wouldn’t let another Robin die.

Both Cass and Steph joined Jason, all their stares directed at the person blearily blinking up at them from behind a myriad of medical tape and gauze. Vaguely Jason could hear Bruce step closer behind him as well, but his entire focus was directed at the Red Mask.

He could feel the green come back.

The pain and the horror of the last few hours were still heavy on his shoulders and his untimely return home – no, to the Manor, – most certainly didn’t help. He hadn’t been here in a year. He hadn’t planned on coming back at all (ever?). 

And he would leave again as soon as all of this was over.

As soon as he knew that Damian was save.

As soon as Jason managed to ensure that Bruce’s foolishness hadn’t killed another Robin.

“Talk.”

Jason was using his Red Hood voice. The one he used to scare drug dealers into pissing themselves, or rapists into confessing. The Red Mask barely blinked, an unimpressed calmness coloring his features. And yet he answered, his voice silent and amused:

“You don’t scare me, boy. After the horrors I have seen… my own face is the least of it.”

He could feel it. He could feel the green rising, the rage winning against logic. And then it stopped, a hand on his shoulder grounding him. It was Cass who had dared to touch him. Cass, who had stepped close to him, a firmness in her gaze that Jason always admired. And feared.

“Enough.”

Jason wanted to fight, wanted to explode, but he didn’t. Something in Cass’s eyes told him that she was just as angry as him. That her composure was just as hard won as his. That she was just as much as a raging mess than he was.

But she didn’t show it. She controlled it. She pushed it back down.

And she demanded from Jason to do the same.

It felt a bit like losing when Jason allowed himself to step back. It felt a bit like losing when he didn’t fight the hand Cass had on his shoulder, but instead followed her, when she made room for Bruce, allowing the man access to the Red Mask.

But it was Batman standing before them. Batman, who looked down at Red Mask and asked:

“I want you to talk. Where is my son. And what is the Demon’s Head planning.”

Again, Jason noticed, he had no idea what was going on.

How did Bruce know that it was Ra’s al Ghul who had taken Damian? Why would his alternate self work with the League of Assassins? What the ever-loving fuck was going on?

“Hi, Bastard Man. Long time no see.”

“That is not what I asked you, Red Mask.”

Something heavy dropped in Jason’s stomach when he saw the smile on Red Mask’s face. This couldn’t mean anything good. This could only mean pain. For who? Jason had no idea.

“Remember… remember when you visited us? And made us all… made us all soft and mushy and weak. We should have killed you. It would have been so much better than what came next.”

Jason was… lost.

One glance in the direction of Cass – and Steph who was biting her lip in worry – confirmed something else: They knew what Red Mask was talking about. Or at least, they knew more than Jason.

Not that that was hard, apparently.

But still, it hurt, to know that Jason was the only one left out of the loop. He knew why, of course.

He was no longer a part of this family.

But it had been easier to ignore the hole inside of him, the burning longing for companionship and belonging, while he was gone. There had been different things to worry about on his travels, different monsters to take care of than the ones residing in his head.

Gotham, the Manor, the Cave… all of these things enhanced his emotions, made him feel things he had long ago forgotten he was capable of feeling.

They made him remember why he had returned all those years ago at all. They reminded him of his very first come-back, of the green being so much more potent, of the blood on his hands, of the… of the desperate attempts to hurt Bruce.

Of this fierce pain he had felt whenever he realized that he was no longer a part of Bruce’s cosmos. A part of Bruce’s family.

Wherever he looked, his eyes found another memory, another piece of pain lodging itself deeper into this hole filled with green smoke that might have been a heart years ago. That might have been a heart before Jason had been tossed away one too many times.

“My _son_ , Red Mask. I want to know where my son is.”

Did Bruce ever talk like this about Jason? Where there moments in time in which Jason carried the same importance that Damian did? Or Dick? Or Tim? Or Cass?

“You know… none of this would have happened if you would have just let us kill him. If the Brat had been allowed to bury his katana in B’s stomach, if JJ had been given the honor to poison and experiment, if Talon could have used its claws… if I had been given the chance to blow Batman’s brains out. But you wouldn’t let us. And we listened. Of course, we did. You trained us too good for that. We’re your _little toy soldiers_ after all.”

“I never did such a thing!”

Where Batman’s voice had been calm and collected earlier, it now reverberated across the Cave, the fury in it almost visible. Jason couldn’t help himself, his feet taking an involuntary step back, his muscles tense in the face of such anger. In the face of such rage.

Everything was too close today.

It was loud, in his head and in the Cave. Jason just wanted some silence, a minute to collect himself. A minute, to push the memories of Willis hitting him, of the Joker killing him, of Bruce abandoning him _down_.

But the universe had never liked Jason Peter Todd all that much, and it most certainly didn’t start to do so now.

“Master?”

A new voice joined the chaos surrounding the medical cod, and when Jason turned around, he was greeted by a face he hadn’t seen in ages. Some eight years, he would wager. Because it was the face of Dick Grayson, aged eighteen or nineteen – maximum douchebag years, if Jason remembered correctly – staring back at him.

Well, if the Dick of his memories had been a Talon.

“What the fuck?”

There was nothing else to say, Jason too shocked to come up with something witty. To come up with something intelligent at all.

Bruce turned as well, rage still coiled in every muscle of his body, his face falling when he spotted the… the fake-Dick-Grayson-Talon-double:

“Talon. What are you doing here? I thought, I ordered you to stay in your room during the night.”

“It is morning, Ma- Dad. It is morning. Talon is allowed out of cage in morning.”

_What. The. Fuck._

This had to be some cosmic joke, but when Jason glanced around the Cave, no one was laughing. Not even the Red Mask. No, the bastard had managed to turn his battered head – pain visible on his face – in the direction of the creepy fake-Dick as well, something poisonous in his gaze. And in his words:

“Ah, we should have known that you would follow the first bastard to put you on a leash again you could find, lapdog. Do you perform tricks for him as well? Fetch? Catch? Or are you just sucking his dick?”

It was… _disgusting_. Jason had no idea what was going on – and how could he, really? – but he wanted out of this situation, out of this Cave, as fast as possible. He needed room to breathe. He needed to get away from this asshole version of himself.

But Jason never got what he wanted.

Instead he was forced to watch as the… fake-Dick – the Dildo? – didn’t react to the taunts, the blank, golden eyes only focusing on Bruce. There was pure obedience in them. Pure submission. Jason had the vague feeling that should Bruce be sick enough to ask Dildo to drop to his knees, the Talon would do so without hesitation.

Well, and Jason would gleefully kill any version of Batman should they ever even contemplate doing something like that.

Because while killing Batman had never really been Jason’s goal – his heart a traitorous bitch – he wouldn’t hesitate to put those who deserved it down. And rapists would always deserve it.

But he didn’t have to do that just yet, the horror in Bruce’s face too real, too raw.

The girls were also shocked, Steph’s face white, Cass’s taunt with hate. Their family – his former family – might have sucked when it came to pulling the trigger when necessary, but they sure as hell wouldn’t let shit like this stand.

At least Jason hoped so.

He could see the ways in which Cass was ready to bounce, could see the longing for pain in the flex of Stephanie’s fingers, but before either of them could act – before Jason could pull his gun to end it once and for all – Bruce raised his hand, signaling them to stand down. And they did.

They always did.

Jason only hated himself a little bit for that.

(a lie)

“Red Mask. For your own good, tell me where my son is. If you don’t… Cassandra over here is the best martial artist out there, better by far than me. Stephanie knows how to survive – and she knows how to inflict pain, and Jason… I am sure you know that Jason has never been one to play by the rules. Only courtesy is holding them back. I don’t control them – but your answer might make a difference.”

Bruce sounded dangerous in a way Jason wasn’t extremely familiar with. Bruce sounded like a tiger, ready to rip someone’s throat out, like a villain before he dropped the hero into a vat of acid… Bruce sounded _deadly_ , and Jason didn’t like it at all.

Especially since Bruce was threatening Red Mask not with his own physical prowess, but with the rage of his kids (and Jason). 

The Talon-Dildo-Whatever was still just standing behind them, eyes never leaving Bruce, body never reacting to the way he was being talked about – or not. Jason tried to look, tried to find a hint of humanity, a clue about what the fuck was going on, but the dead-ness of the Talon unnerved him.

But what else was he supposed to look at?

Bruce send shivers down his spine, with all the rage coiled up inside of him, that reminded Jason too much of Willis – especially tonight.

The Cave itself was a graveyard of happy memories and trauma, not one place free of memorabilia Jason wanted to forget.

The Red Mask was a reminder of everything Jason had never wanted to become, not even in his darkest days, not even when he was fresh out of the Pit.

And Dildo… Dildo was a lost boy Jason couldn’t save, a puppet with cut strings, a Pinocchio without his master – or with only Bruce as a master left. Jason wasn’t sure what was worse.

“Hm, I would love to tell you, really, Bastard Man, but you see… I would have to know what the plan is to do so. And… well, the Brat never wanted me to know that part. Can’t say I blame him. You can call your attack dogs back.”

Damian was missing and they had no clue where he was. Damian had been kidnapped and they had no idea what the enemy had planned. Damian had been taken… and not even the one attacker they had access to knew what would happen next.

They were completely fucked.

Not that Bruce was ready to accept that yet:

“If I find out that you’ve been lying to me…”

“Chill your beans. And get me some morphine… I would rather sleep that have to watch your ugly mugs beg for Batman’s attention any longer. Hah, this world’s version of me is even more of a cocksucker than I am.”

Red Mask’s voice wasn’t loud, the pain of multiple injuries getting to him, but it didn’t have to be loud to chill Jason to his core.

 _No_.

Jason Peter Todd was more than this. The Red Hood was more than this.

He had made a name for himself, he had stood tall in the face of Batman, he had killed where Bruce could not, he had won where others had died.

Jason was not the Red Mask. And he would never be.

Now he only needed to start believing it as well:

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Will do… but, one thing: Talon… your birdies are dead. And the Demon’s Head doesn’t like traitors.”

The Red Mask closed his eyes, as if he was signaling ‘Look! I am done here!’, but Jason could see the satisfaction haunting the corners of his mouth. It wasn’t Jason that noticed the reaction of Dildo, it was Bruce’s sharp “Talon” that redirected Jason’s attention:

He turned around and found Talon several feet closer to their group than he had been before – and Jason hadn’t heard him move. There was a dagger in Talon’s hand, and Jason could see the clear line between the Talon and the exposed neck of the Red Mask.

But now the fake-Dick had stopped, his arm outstretched, something close to anger written in his gaze.

“Talon. Put that dagger down. No killing, we’ve talked about this.”

“Yes, Master”

Earlier there had only been obedience in Talon’s eyes, only submission in his words, but right now Jason could hear the displeasure in the raspy voice of the assassin. Dildo wanted to see Red Mask dead, and right now, Jason was more than ready to support him.

But first… well, Jason wanted some fucking answers:

“Can someone please explain to me what the fuck is going on? Why is some fucked-up alternate version of me running around? Why is a fucking Talon-Dildo living in the Manor? Why the fuck is the League of Assassins involved in this? Like, fuck… Bruce, what is going on?”

Silence fell over the Cave, and for a moment Jason toyed with the idea of actually getting what he had asked for, but nothing could ever be that easy.

Instead of answers spilling from Bruce’s mouth, there was only the sound of a roaring engine audible. It was getting closer and closer and louder. Someone was coming through the outside entrance of the Cave.

And, yeah, there were still a few people missing from their gang of misfits, weren’t there?

Tim, Duke, and Dick hadn’t shown their faces yet – and while Barbara usually stayed in her fairytale tower, it was weird to have heard nothing from her either.

The question of _who_ was solved rather quickly. Jason would recognize that blue anywhere. The motorcycle’s scratches and dents spoke of someone who loved his bike but didn’t have the patience to fix it up himself.

It was Dick driving into the Cave at top speed, coming to a halt not even fifty feet away from their group, at the very corner of the space Bruce generously called a garage. The rest of them recognized it for what it was: a hanger and an arsenal.

Everyone currently in the Cave – even Alfred, who Jason could see preparing an IV for their prisoner from the corner of his eye – was watching as Dick dismounted from his bike, Nightwing uniform signaling that he had gotten Bruce’s message.

Jason was pretty sure that he wasn’t imagining the slight tremor that wracked Dick’s hands as he fumbled to take of the helmet – _whimp_ – before stepping closer, his voice directed at Bruce, his head turned into the direction of Talon:

“I got your call. Did you find Damian already? Is he alright?”

Dick sounded tired. And not the normal ‘I have two-full time jobs and a social calendar, Jason’ tired, but the kind of tired that spoke of countless sleepless nights and a case so heavy you wanted to die. They were all known to get like that sometimes, vigilantism not the kind of profession that taught you what a healthy work-life balance looked like, but Jason feared what that would mean for this one.

If Dick started off with only the barest of reserves left, what would he do once they were forced to spend a 100% of themselves on this case? On saving Damian?

But why was Jason even thinking of them as a unit. He wasn’t a part of them anymore. He was no son of Bruce, and no part of this family either. Jason Todd had died almost seven years ago. It was time that Jason accepted that he would never come back. 

Dick finally managed to get the helmet off his head, his hair shorter than Jason remembered it to be. It was sticking up in every direction in a way that made it obvious that Dick had been sleeping before he got the call.

And, yeah, why was Dick here now, but hadn’t been anywhere in Blüdhaven while Jason haunted the city for two days?

Jason wanted answers. He really, really wanted them. Because this was fucking annoying.

It was so hard to stay angry at Bruce when the man was the only one who could quell the need for answers burning inside of him. It was hard to focus on the rage and the loneliness and the pain when Bruce just didn’t acknowledge what he had done to Jason.

He had been thrown away.

And yet here he was, and it seemed as if Jason was the only one who remembered what had happened at all.

Dick didn’t make it any better at all:

“Oh! Jason, I haven’t seen you in ages. Is that-? So, you found a double as well. Is that connected to Dami?”

“Yes, Dickface-“

_Yes, Dickface, you haven’t seen me in fucking ages because Bruce kicked me out – as you so nicely remembered._

Only these words never left Jason’s mouth, dying on his lips before he could spit them into his brother’s face. Because as he turned around to face him fully, Jason saw something else as well: He saw the giant scar on the side of Dick’s head, not even the hair surrounding it long or thick enough to hide it away.

_What. The. Fuck._

Jason really wanted some answers.

* * *

Cass found it hard to concentrate on herself in situations like these.

Everyone else was so loud around her, Cass herself got swallowed by the tides. The anger burning through her body made it even harder to focus on anything besides the echoes of the Cave. It felt as if she was vibrating, but when she dared to look at herself, her body was calm, unmoving.

Only her thoughts were vibrating then. Only her head was bouncing and falling and failing to focus.

Because Cass was angry, but so was everyone else.

They were all colored by different kinds of anger, the way each person felt just as individual as a fingerprint. Cass grew silent. So silent that the explosion shocked everyone, when Cass finally caved and let the anger out.

She was close to bursting, but there was nothing she could do to stop that. Not now, not with so much else at stake.

Jason’s anger was loud in comparison, was more rage and fury than actual anger, but today it was confusion that made his body scream. It was hidden in his clenched jaw and the position of his feet.

It was hard to look away, hard to try and _not_ see, and Cass wasn’t succeeding.

She was looking, and she didn’t like what she saw. At all.

Jason was staring at Dick, who had finally arrived, and there was a tension in his shoulders that made Cass fear that he would snap. That he would drown out the confusion and react with rage, hitting something before he could get any kind of answer.

Well, Cass wanted answers as well.

Bruce had promised them – but he had only given them breadcrumbs, instead of actual words.

Maybe that was the main reason Cass was so mad.

She had always been the Number One supporter of Batman, had always followed Bruce, had trusted him when everyone else had already given up… but he pushed his chance to repay her down the drain. He could have come clean. He could have saved all of them so much pain, but instead he had once again taken the coward’s way out.

Cass still remembered trying to read the memo Bruce had sent, Steph stepping in and reading it out loud for her, when her emotions made it impossible for her to focus:

“The Talon is Dick Grayson from Earth 49311 – he is the only Talon of said Earth. He traveled to this Earth via a stable technological portal. Earth 49311 is the same Dimension I traveled to twelve months ago. Be cautious while interacting with the Talon. The investigation is led by me – all proof should be delivered to me directly.

\- B”

Only Steph’s calm hands covering hers had kept her from destroying the laptop, the rage being so strong and vicious.

The thing that hurt most was probably that Cass had hoped for something better. They left the Cave that very first day after Talon had fallen through the portal, and Cass had dared to hope that Bruce would get over himself. That he would deal with his panic and his horror and be a better man when he emerged on the other side.

And even after the memo had been sent, Cass still hasn’t given up. Bruce had gone out of his way to spend time with her, buying her ice cream and asking her about her day and her hobbies. All of Cass had wanted to ask him what was going on right then and there, but it was the first good afternoon the two of them had spent together in ages.

And wasn’t Cass allowed to enjoy nice things? To have a day with her dad and be just happy?

Apparently, not. There had been no answers following that afternoon. No, the only thing that changed was that now Talon had a place on their table, that the undead assassin roamed the hallways of Wayne Manor, while Bruce locked himself away in his study or the Cave, working on secrets he wouldn’t share.

Cass believed in change. Or at least… she wanted to believe in change.

But sometimes Bruce made that pretty damn hard.

Like, right now, with the Red Mask – every word from his mouth had made her skin crawl and her fists hum in violence – unconscious, Jason confused and angry, and Bruce still not offering anything he didn’t have to offer.

Cass would punch the next person who proposed a relationship that worked on a ‘Need to Know’ basis to her – be it official or private – because she officially had enough of that for a lifetime. Hell, Cass had already been sick of people not talking to her before she could even speak herself.

But Jason and Bruce weren’t the only people making it hard for Cass to focus on her own anger, on pushing it down and making it go away, no, the arrival of Dick most certainly didn’t help.

The man looked even worse than he had the last time they’d seen each other – last Sunday dinner, if Cass remembered correctly – and his frantic energies upset not just Cass but Bruce and Jason as well.

His hands were shaking, his body vibrating, and his voice was too fast and bright and much:

“Bruce? What are the leads on Damian? Where can we start looking? I would really appreciate an answer, guys. And is that other Jason-dude still alive?”

Cass wanted to yell at him to shut up, but the calming presence of Steph by her shoulder stopped her. The woman had been by her side for the entirety of this mess, and Cass enjoyed how calm Steph was – even if only by comparison.

Steph felt many things, emotions always so easy to read in the way she talked and moved and smiled, but they were rarely stifling. Cass didn’t feel like drowning when she watched a movie with Steph, knowing that Steph would cry. She didn’t feel like falling when they fought, and Steph stormed away. She didn’t feel like burning, whenever Steph’s eyes said _want_.

Steph made Cass calm. She made sure that Cass could see Cass as well and not just the others.

If only Cass could do the same for Steph…

“Dick… take a deep breath. Get changed. We couldn’t attain any helpful information from Red Mask, and we will continue the investigation tomorrow, but before that we have enough time to rest up.”

Bruce’s voice was calm, and Cass suspected that people who couldn’t read him like she could, thought that that calmness was a reflection of the truth. It was not.

Bruce was panicking. She could see it in his right fist, in the pulse of the vein on the base of his neck, in the small change of tone when he had said the word ‘attain’. He was falling apart. And Cass was sick of catching him.

No, she was sick of catching any of them.

Steph was much the same:

“Cut the crap. This is a kidnapping case, and we all know that the first 24 hours are the most important ones in the entire case. You won’t go to bed, so don’t you dare send us away.”

She was right. The clock was running if they wanted to have any chance at saving Damian. Shame bubbled in her stomach, all the information surrounding her making her forget that the most important part of this meeting was not her anger, but the fact that Damian was gone.

That someone had taken her little brother.

Whoever that had been, she would make them pay.

And judging by the tension in Dick’s chin – pain flashing behind his eyes – and Jason’s crossed arms – defiance clinging to his clothes like a strong smell – Cass knew that her siblings would be just as ready to bring harm upon those who had dared to touch one of their own.

Nobody hurt a Robin without the rest of them returning the pain in equal measure.

“They are, you are right, Stephanie. But Dick almost falling over because he didn’t sleep won’t help any of us – and it most certainly won’t help Damian!”

Silence fell over the Cave as Bruce’s words registered. It wasn’t the kind of silence Cass enjoyed. No. In many ways it was so much louder than it had been before.

Jason flinched – Cass had noticed that it wasn’t the first time Jason had reacted in such a way to Bruce during these last few hours – and took a step back, distancing himself from Bruce, but also from Dick. Steph sucked in a shocked breath through her teeth, the slight whistling sound audible even from where she stood behind Cass, reassuring her that Steph was still by her side.

(a chipped tooth a few months ago was the reason for this particular tick – Cass loved it and Steph didn’t get it fixed)

There were rules of etiquette, about what you did and didn’t say to another crimefighter, and Bruce had just broken at least one of them.

Barbara had spent many months in the beginning of Cass’s career in Gotham teaching her the small nuances of vigilante interaction. It still confused Cass sometimes, how bodies could be so honest, words so simple, and yet human interactions so complex.

But one of these rules in particular had stayed with Cass, because it was the rule that made the most sense to her:

You don’t acknowledge the weakness of an ally in front of the entire team.

Yes, Cass also saw that Dick was most certainly not at his best, that he was in pain and falling apart. Jason saw it, too, Steph, as well. They weren’t blind.

(Talon saw it, too, but Cass tried to ignore the undead version of her brother as much as she physically could)

But none of them had said anything. Because the only thing that would achieve, well, the only thing that would accomplish… was this:

“Shut up, Bruce, and focus on Damian. He’s what’s important right now.”

Anger. Pain. Panic.

Cass didn’t even have to look at his body to know that, Dick’s voice carrying all of these emotions in every single word that spilled from his lips.

Confronting someone in front of others forced them to defend themselves. Defend themselves or bear the burden of public humiliation.

And all of them were awfully proud creatures. Cass looked at each of them each day out in the field and she knew that not a single one of her siblings would be able to take something like this laying down. They needed to defend their honor and pride. Because all of them were familiar with the days on which your pride was the only thing you had left. All of them knew that sometimes your entire self-worth was tied to the fact _that you would not bow_. You would not cave.

Cass knew that she would fight back as well, should she ever be the one Bruce’s judgement focused on. Because Cass had found her pride thanks to Barbara and Bruce, and she would never lose it ever again.

Dick had tried to take the nice way out, the diplomatic path of redirecting the attention away from himself and towards the matter at hand.

They needed to find Damian.

Steph had been right, the first day in a kidnapping case was always the most important one. And they had already wasted more than enough time on unimportant stuff.

Only that it wasn’t unimportant.

Their issues were piling and piling and piling, and there was always something going on that made it impossible to deal with all the shit that had happened between them. And there was lots of it. Not one relationship was easy, not one connection simple and untouched by pain.

Bruce was falling apart and pushing them away, Dick was asking for help but nobody answered, Jason was lost and angry and confused, Steph wanted to be strong but had no idea how, Talon craved love like Cass had done too once upon a time and… and Cass just wanted for things to make sense again. For people to listen to her. For Damian to be here in the Cave and alright.

For Bruce to finally get over himself and start talking.

They needed… Cass needed…

_Kintsugi_

They all needed to break, so they could start healing again.

Luckily, Cass had already started to crack a month ago, when she had asked for silence, but nobody listened.

Luckily, it wasn’t all that hard for Cass to break apart further and further and further.

(and she would save Damian along the way. She promised it. She really, really did)

“Dick, for the last time, go upstairs and lay down! This is not the place for this! I have more important things to do right now – more important things to worry about right now than whether you will collapse or not. I need to save _my son_!”

Bruce always sounded so harsh when he was worried, so cold when he wanted to give them love. Sometimes Cass wondered if something in Bruce’s brain had been falsely connected, twisting his reactions until they only made sense to Bruce himself – and Cass on the days she was awake enough to read him attentively. Or cared enough to try.

Bruce was worried.

Dick had never been one to appreciate cold worry:

“Fuck you, Bruce! I am an adult. And I want to get started as well! It is my… It is Damian who went missing, not me! Let me take care of myself and focus on bringing Dami back! Priorities, Bruce, you had them once!”

There was a twist to Bruce’s lip that Cass didn’t like. The explosion was inevitable and… and Cass didn’t want to be here for it.

Jason had distanced himself from the group as well, no one noticing his slow steps towards the computer, Bruce and Dick caught in their own little world, Alfred busy making sure the Red Mask didn’t die while no one was looking, and Steph watching Bruce and Dick threaten to rip into each other.

Cass had enough.

She let herself break. It was time:

“I am going.”

She hadn’t said those words particularly loud or taunting, but every single person in the room had heard them, nevertheless. They all fell silent. They all turned to watch her.

_Good._

“I am leaving.”

“Why? Cass, we need all hands on deck. I _need_ you here. Damian… you have to help us find him.” Bruce said.

Confusion.

 _Hah_ , it would do Bruce some good to be the one left behind for once. But, no, Cass had to explain, had to make sure that she wasn’t doing this for selfish reasons, but for the good of the family:

“You just fight. I will _do_ something. I have enough of the lies. I will find the truth. I will find Damian.”

No one dared to speak, her declaration hanging heavy in the air.

Her steps were silent as she pushed past Bruce, past Talon, past Dick and made her way towards the garage. Her own bike was waiting for her – her own mission and path ready for her to just take it and go.

Steph followed her, urgency loud behind everything she did:

“Cass! Wait! I’ll come with you.”

It hurt to turn around and look into those eyes Cass loved. It hurt to see them widen in realization long before Cass found the words she wanted to say:

“No. You stay. Damian needs you here.”

“Cass…”

She didn’t wait for Steph to say something else. She didn’t wait for the disappointment and the hurt to tie her down. She didn’t wait for the heartbreak and the loss. Cass had enough. And she wanted to be somewhere else.

Somewhere she could make a difference instead of just being a bystander in the conflicts of others.

She deserved her own narrative. And Damian deserved to be saved.

The roar of the engine was loud as she drove out of the Cave, the tunnels surrounding her darker than the blackest night, darker even than her own thoughts. Her helmet protected her from the wind and the noises of betrayal, but not from the sound of her own heart shattering.

Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe Damian would pay for this or Bruce would never forgive.

But one of them had to break. And for once in her life, Cass was ready to be that person.

“Black Bat to Oracle.”

“Hi, BB. What can I do for you?”

“Get me out of here. Save Damian.”

“I will see what I can do for you.”

Maybe this was a mistake. Or maybe they would finally start to heal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, Bookmarks and Kudos make an author happy! (and I just really love to hear your thoughts and theories :D )


	12. So Much Yelling - Steph

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steph would like everyone to know that she was not an official part of that mess she liked to call the Batfam and that she was more than happy to remain a somewhat girlfriend to Cass (and an ex-girlfriend to Tim) and nothing more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and Welcome Back my loves! <3  
> It is time for some Stephanie!  
> Since next chapter is going to be more on the heavy side... I thought we could all use some introspection with Steph! :D

Steph would like everyone to know that she was not an official part of that mess she liked to call the Batfam and that she was more than happy to remain a somewhat girlfriend to Cass (and an ex-girlfriend to Tim) and nothing more.

If there had ever been any fatherly feelings from Bruce towards her, or a daughterly longing from her for Bruce… well, then Steph would very much appreciate it if you ignored that. She didn’t acknowledge it either.

No, she was truly happy as Batgirl, running around Gotham, enjoying the small student apartment she shared with Cass.

Should Cass ever decide to sleep over at their apartment again.

Ever since Dick had gotten a visit from this alternate Talon version of himself, Cass stayed at the Manor almost constantly. It was annoying. It was lonely.

Because, well, Steph was a social gal. She liked spending time with her friends, with her family, and with… _Cass_. It had been hard enough when the woman had stayed in Hong Kong after the debacle that was Dick taking up the Cowl, Bruce “dying” (and he wasn’t even cool enough to die for real like the rest of them), and Tim fleeing the city.

Cass didn’t come home when the world returned to its given order.

Cass stayed far away.

And then she returned. A year ago, Cass had decided to say “Fuck you, Hong Kong!” (though in less colorful words) and returned to Gotham, returned to Steph and her tiny apartment.

It only sometimes hurt to know that Cass hadn’t returned for her, but for Batman. It only sometimes felt like the most unfair thing in the world to not even be the number one priority of the woman she loved.

But, hey, Steph was used to being no one’s number one. She hadn’t been her parents’ either, or Batman’s, or Tim’s – really.

Steph was just the eternal second best.

(Or the third best Batgirl and the fifth best Robin)

But, hey, she was still alive (again).

She shared an apartment she paid for herself with her somewhat girlfriend.

She didn’t have to deal with Bruce’s emotional constipation, since he wasn’t her dad.

She was a mature adult that could deal with the shit life liked to throw in her direction.

And maybe if she repeated that mantra often enough, she would start to believe it, her eyes fixated on the taillights of Cass’s bike. Maybe if she blinked often enough, she would manage to keep the tears at bay.

Nobody had time for her crying. Hell, she had no time for an emotional breakdown either. Damian needed her. Cass had said so. Shortly before leaving her behind to play the brooding asshole, of course, but Cass had assured her that Steph was needed in the Cave.

Cass hadn’t lied, had she?

No, thoughts like that only brought sorrow and depression. And if there was one thing this family didn’t need any more of, it was depression and general pessimism.

She was Stephanie Brown. She would power through this. She always did.

Her smile was firmly back in place, when she turned around to see what kind of mess Cass had left her with.

Well, she could work with this _. Probably_.

Bruce had taken a couple of steps in the direction of the garage, Dick following him, both of them radiating worry like a space heater. Behind Bruce, Talon stood, no movement at all detectable. Alfred was only barely visible, but from what Steph was able to see, she would bet that he was still working on the Red Mask.

(and Steph didn’t know what to think about the threats Bruce had made in the face of that bastard – was she good in dealing pain? Was she the bruiser and the brawn?)

Jason, however, had taken to wandering off, his large frame hunched over the Batcomputer. He was deliberately not looking at her and – honestly? – Steph appreciated that.

Her composure was paper thin, and they had more important things to worry about than the fact that she wanted to curl up into a ball and cry.

Still, it was weird to see Jason in their midst. He had been gone for a year after all. Hah, gone. He had been thrown out of the family, half of them listening over comms as Bruce ripped the Bat away from Jason’s chest and declared him no son of his.

Steph had been wrecked by nightmares after that happened, herself in the spot of Jason more often than not. It had been the R on her chest or the Cowl on her head that Bruce had taken from her in those dreams, but both had felt like her soul being ripped apart.

She could still remember wanting to follow Jason, the urge to find him and run, but… but she was finally Batgirl. She was finally an accepted and acknowledged and celebrated hero. Call her a coward, but Steph wanted to keep on being a part of the family.

Not that she was part of it, of course.

No, but she enjoyed the peripheral just as much. Sometimes, maybe even more so.

Not going after Jason might have been one of her greatest mistakes, but by the time Steph had realized that – had seen that she didn’t have to cower before Bruce, but that she was allowed and expected to fight him… it had been too late. Jason had been gone for months by that time, and the world was ending once more, keeping Batgirl in Gotham and Steph unable to search for Jason.

But now here he was.

And Steph had been in enough uncomfortable situations in her life to know that he wanted to be anywhere but. Well, kids like them never got what they wanted, did they? Because Steph wanted for her girlfriend to stay and hug her, but you saw how that one worked out.

 _Not the time_.

Damian. They had to focus on Damian.

From what Steph could gather, Bruce thought that Damian had been snatched by the evil version of himself, which would mean that there were now three universe travelers running around on their earth. If all of them hadn’t also turned out to be evil, Steph would be stoked. But as it was, she was more focused on reminding herself to check-in with Tim, since he seemed to be the last one missing.

It was always the boys, wasn’t it?

She and Cass and Barbara – and Duke – always got forgotten. It wasn’t cool or epic to have your evil self appear and try to kill you, Steph knew that, but still… the rest of them were never included in plots like these. No, they were just here to try and solve them.

“What’s next?”

If that was her role, Steph would do her best to fulfill it. Her loud voice made sure that everyone was looking at her – even the creepy dead Talon. It was a good question, if a fairly simple one, but Steph had to get them moving.

Cass had left her with a mission after all. Her girlfriend stated that Damian needed Steph here, and if that was the case, then Steph would do her fucking best to ensure that the little Brat returned home.

It wasn’t her fault that she had a soft spot for him. It would only be the fault of the asshole who took him, when she finally got the chance to bury her fist in the face of Damian’s kidnapper.

“What is next is that Dick will go and sleep, while you and Jason scan the Manor grounds for tracks and clues. I will get in contact with Oracle to try and get the readings of the security cameras surrounding the Manor. And then I will inform the Flash that another scan of Gotham for T- and Gamma radiation is necessary.”

Bruce always sounded so sure of himself, as if his plan was the only plan that made sense. And maybe that was the case, maybe the big bad Batman was the only one who’s plans tended to work, or who could outthink even the Question, but Steph… Steph missed the dad under all this black leather kink gear.

Her time as Robin had been a shitshow and most of that had been Bruce’s fault, but Steph still remembered his rare smiles, or the jokes he sometimes cracked even while wearing the Cowl. Now only doom and gloom bled from his every pore.

And that wasn’t just Damian’s fault. The Dark Knight has been getting darker and darker for ages now.

Things that might have sounded like parental worry once upon a time now sounded like reprimands and personal failures. Or… what Steph wanted to say was… she completely understood why Dick reacted the way he did:

“Let me help, Bruce. He is my… he is my Robin. I can’t sleep now! How could I? My- Robin is missing! For fuck’s sake… you always just push me away.”

Steph had done some extra homework after Dick got shot, her college courses not really covering what happened during a Traumatic Brain Injury. And what she had found had… not discouraged her, no, that would be the wrong word… it had explained some things to her.

She hadn’t questioned Ric’s erratic behavior because – while uncommon – it could happen as a side effect, and Steph had wanted to give him room. But at the same time, the worry had eaten at her. TBIs often came with side dishes like depression, mood swings, illogical behavior, and laps of attention.

Maybe if she had paid more attention, she would have also seen the side effect of Killer Owls Trying to Kill Them All.

But now Dick was back, and Steph wondered just how well adjusted he really was. You didn’t just bounce back from something like that. It had taken Steph years to come back from her death by the hands of the Black Mask and it still haunted her… it had turned her into a different person than the one she had been before.

Dick would have to become someone new as well if he wanted to move on from that shitty last year pretty much all of them had had.

But looking at his lost expression, at the desperate way in which his hands flexed – relaxed – flexed – relaxed – flexed – relaxed…

Steph wasn’t sure if he knew that.

Or Bruce:

“Dick, for God’s sake. Go! Don’t make me repeat myself! I have Damian to worry about!”

Another storm was brewing, and Steph wanted to run away just like Cass had. And maybe that made it worse. Steph understood why Cass had left, she understood why the most empathic person she knew had been overwhelmed and needed to get out… Steph just couldn’t understand why she hadn’t been allowed to follow.

They needed to find Damian – and all they did was fight.

Jason was no longer engaging in the conversation at all, and Steph couldn’t say she blamed him, her own thoughts miles away, the sound of Bruce and Dick getting louder and louder and louder washing over her like waves in the ocean.

They needed to find Damian – but worry made Bruce dumb and Dick desperate.

They knew it had been the Evil Version of Damian who had taken him – at least Bruce thought so. They also knew that he and the Red Mask had been working together (and it was a struggle not to return to _that night_ whenever she recognized the mask from the corner of her eye). They could at least assume that Talon was not working with them – going with the reaction the both of them had to seeing each other.

They had absolutely no idea what the plan was.

This was not a lot to work with. Especially with a case as time sensitive as this.

Steph just hoped that Damian was doing alright. The brat was a fighter, and he would survive – he had to! – but Steph couldn’t help but worry. She liked the little troll. And some part of her knew that he liked her as well. They had grown close back when the kid had first started out as Robin, and with Dick gone, Steph had taken on the role of the older sibling Damian could have fun with.

Not that Damian was much of a little brother for Dick, though Steph doubted that either one of them had realized exactly why their shared bond was so deep and powerful.

Idiots. Every single one of them.

But they were _her_ idiots, no matter how shitty life got. They fought and they hit, and they screamed – but at the end of the day, this group of misfits fighting crime in leather gear ( _Kevlar, Stephanie, for the last time – it is Kevlar!_ ) was the closest thing Steph had to a pack. A family.

Maybe the Batfam wasn’t her family in the same way they were Cass’s family, or Damian’s, or Tim’s… but Bruce and the mission played a pretty big part in her life ever since she had decided to fight against her father. The first time Stephanie stood up for herself, she had done so because Batman and Robin had shown her… that fighting back was a possibility. That she didn’t just have to take it, that she could change her own destiny as well.

There was nothing that could stop Stephanie from saving Damian. He was one of hers. And, don’t tell Cass, but Steph could get pretty damn territorial.

If only Dick and Bruce were capable of seeing what was important as well. But no, they were too caught up in a fight that said nothing and a duel that only cost them time.

“This is ridiculous! Bruce! Goddammit! I could have already talked to Wally and gotten the read-outs if you would just get that stick out of your ass!”

“This is not what this is about! You have to look after yourself! Let me protect you! Let me save Damian AND you!”

“Protect! Hah! Where was this attitude when I got fucking nerfed! Where were _you_ when-“

“Silence!”

Alfred’s voice was harder than steel and quieter than both Dick’s and Bruce’s, and yet it cut through the tension like a hot knife through butter. A hush fell over the Cave. Steph noticed how even the Talon shifted his stance, until he was completely straight – like a soldier waiting for an order or a signal.

Not that that was too far off. All of them turned their attention towards Alfred. It was the only logical thing to do. Alfred might have been the butler, but he was also kind of Bruce’s dad. And if there was one person you listened to, it was Batman’s dad.

Dick was trembling when he turned around, and Bruce lost all color, probably realizing how much time they had already wasted with a completely senseless argument. Jason redirected his attention as well, closing the tab on the Batcomputer he had been investigating only moments earlier.

“Alfred?”

“Not now, Master Bruce. Now, I think, it might be my time to speak. We have a serious matter at hand, and none of you are handling it with the care it deserves. Master Dick, you will go to your room and sleep until at least 12pm – before you say anything else: _You will_ – Master Bruce, you will also return to your chambers, since I know for a fact that you haven’t seen your bed in literal days.”

Both Bruce and Dick were left speechless, and if this was any other situation, Steph would cackle in glee at the sight of Bruce left without words because Alfred sent him to his room. Bruce’s mouth was even slightly agape!

But no, this was not the time for this, and Steph pushed the laughter back down – hysteria coloring the situation funnier than it actually was – and focused on Alfred instead. The man was not yet done, and Steph had not yet received her orders for the night – or day, since they were nearing 7:30am:

“Talon, I will request your help in the kitchen after I secured our… guest, since there are a few work intensive days or hours in our near future and… Master Jason, Miss Stephanie… if you are still energetic enough, I would appreciate your help by scouting the Manor grounds. Miss Barbara has already been informed – she will do her best – and the Justice League can be contacted by me. Contrary to popular belief, I am not just a butler, I can make telephone calls as well.”

Alfred was pissed, and Steph could completely understand why.

“Will do! Onto the Manor grounds it is! You coming, Jay?”

The cheer in her voice tasted like fake raspberry flavor, and the bounce in her steps felt like lying, but Steph would do her best trying to save Damian, trying not to make everything even worse than it already was.

Jason followed her reluctantly towards the Cave exit that led straight to the gardens, his gaze focused on Bruce. Both Steph and Jason were still in uniform, even if Jason must have lost his helmet before Steph came down to the Cave.

She had persuaded Cass to let her sleep in the Manor tonight, and instead of vanishing back into Gotham after patrol, Batgirl had climbed the outside wall of the house and vanished into Cass’s room. It wasn’t necessary, not really, Bruce more than aware of their relationship status – sometimes Steph had the feeling that Bruce knew more about it than Steph – but Steph needed the thrill, the idea of teenage romcom drama.

Because climbing in through a window felt so much more normal than kicking goons until they lost conscience. Sometimes Steph wanted to be college girl Steph, and not just Batgirl. Even if that meant sneaking into her girlfriend’s room at night after fighting crime while dressed in spandex ( _Kevlar, Stephanie!_ ).

But now they had something else to worry about again. There was no room for the dreams of a college girl on mornings like these – there was only the mission. Only the attempt to save the family. The brat.

Both Jason and she were silent as they made their way upwards towards the hidden door behind Alfred’s favorite geranium flowerbed.

She hadn’t slept for almost twenty-four hours at this point. Sooner or later she would crash, but as of now the adrenaline kept her going. The sun was already bright when they unlocked the door, pushing the decorative piece of stone that hid it away.

It was almost 8am after all, and summer. In a few hours the clouds would start to build up over Gotham, coloring everything grey in a way Gotham couldn’t escape even when the weatherman had promised sun. Gotham would eternally be grey.

But on mornings like this, it was almost painfully bright.

Nobody could see them, the part of the Manor turned away from the roads, and the gardens in front of her large enough that not even a passing by car would have any chance of spotting them. But they were still cautious when they made their way from the flowerbed towards the side of the Manor Damian’s room was located in.

It was stifling. The heat and the heaviness of the air – but also the tension bleeding out of Jason.

They barely knew each other, their times as heroes never really aligning. Jason had died before Steph became Spoiler, and she had been in Ethiopia when he came back angry at the world.

She knew she would have probably liked him, if they had met under different circumstances, both of them kids from the lower parts of Gotham, both of them caught up in this game of good and evil because of shit their parents did.

(and then he had almost succeeded in killing Tim before she ever got a chance to meet him)

Dick had told her once that Bruce was so strict when it came to her because she reminded him of Jason. That Bruce was afraid _FOR_ her and not of her. Well, Steph called bullshit. She wouldn’t stand by and let Bruce’s issues be a reflection of herself.

But still, she had maybe exchanged a couple of sentences with Jason before he got kicked out of Gotham and Steph still… regret was the wrong word… but she was sad for this opportunity she had let pass by.

Maybe that was why she opened her mouth, when they had reached the shrubbery beneath Damian’s window, both of them sweeping the floor with their eyes in the Army pattern Bruce had taught them:

“So… you are back?”

“Not voluntarily.”

Great conversation. Wow, thank you Jason for this wonderful contribution! But, no, all of them were under a lot of stress. Steph wouldn’t give into the bitchy part of herself that wanted to provoke a deadly vigilante who liked to cut off the heads of his enemies.

“So… are you gonna stay?”

“I am out of here as soon as the Brat is found. Bruce can kiss my ass.”

A surprised chuckle escaped her. All of them were idiots. All of them were the same.

“Have you tried talking to him?”

Jason turned around to face her, a broken twig in his hands, an exasperated look in his eyes:

“Talk? To Bruce Fucking Wayne? To I-Throw-My-Kids-Out-On-The-Streets-Instead-Of-Asking-Them-What-It-Was-All-About Wayne? Yeah, big fat chance.”

“I just… I mean, I get it, I just thought, maybe you could talk about it with him… I bet he didn’t-“

Whatever parallel universe Steph had landed in, in which she, Batman’s Number Two Critic, was left to defend Bruce’s honor, Steph didn’t like it. Jason didn’t seem to appreciate it either:

“He ripped the Bat from my chest and told me I wasn’t his kid. After my friends died and I had a plan to right some wrongs… sorry, but I don’t fucking think that I want to talk to Bruce. Or to you, for that matter, _bootlicker_.”

Anger burned through her veins; her eyes no longer glued to the ground but to Jason’s face:

“Listen up, you punk! If anyone of us has a reason to be mad at Bruce, then that’s me. Or fuck that. Scratch that. We all have fucking good reasons to be mad at Bruce. That man messed up all our lives. And I get it, you’re mad. You’re hurt. You’re angry. Well, guess what? So is the rest of us. Get your head out of your ass and do something about it… but don’t you dare tell _me_ that I am the one kissing Bruce’s ass.”

Steph hadn’t fought tooth and nail for every inch of respect Bruce was willing to give her to be called a bootlicker by the Robin, who had said cheesy shit like “Being Robin gives me magic”. Steph had yelled at Bruce, fought with Bruce – she had been given Robin just to have it taken away.

She had died wearing that mantel, just as Jason had died in it. And Damian.

And then she’d been given Batgirl – had taken it for herself. Now, she no longer was the little Robin under Bruce’s thumb. She was still a part of this thing called the Bat-clan, but she wasn’t… She had learned how to be something separate from it as well.

The best decision Steph ever made was giving up hope when it came to Bruce.

Yeah, she had wanted a dad. She had wanted a mentor and a teacher and a father-figure that gave a shit. Instead she had gotten Bruce, who wanted Tim back. Bruce, who couldn’t look her into the eyes, because apparently, she was too much like a dead kid. Bruce, who always had Dick to do the emotional labor for him.

But looking at Jason, at his angry face, at the tremor in his giant, hunching shoulders, Steph realized something else: Jason had never done the same thing.

Jason was still the angry teenager who had died in a warehouse in Ethiopia. Or at least some part of him was. The same part that would always stay Robin. The same part that just wanted his dad.

But everything else had changed. The world had continued to turn, the rest of Jason Todd had grown and changed and evolved. Only Robin didn’t. Only this kid that just wanted to be saved had remained the same.

Jason Todd was a tragic figure, but it wasn’t Stephanie’s job to fix him.

“Fuck you.”

His voice was scathing as he turned away, his body moving away from her, his eyes returning to a search both of them already knew would be fruitless.

“Well, fuck you, too!”

For a moment Steph continued to stare, letting her eyes follow the retreating form of Jason, letting her mind catch up with her mouth.

They were a mess. She was a mess.

There was a Robin to be saved – Damian to return home and all this entire family could so was fight.

Cass had done the right thing when she left, when she left Stephanie behind. They were useless. But even if there was nothing Steph could do, she would try.

She had never promised someone the impossible, but she would always promise at least to give it her best. To give what she was capable of giving and to save what she was capable of saving.

Maybe that was too little for heroes like Batman and Nightwing, or assholes like the Red Hood, but it was what Batgirl did. What Batgirl would continue to do.

She turned around once more, her eyes jumping from stick to stone to leaf to bush. She was searching for a clue, but all she could find was the normal sight of shrubbery, perfectly kept in shape by none other than Alfred himself.

Hope was always her strongest feature, but after two hours of fruitless searching, even Steph was forced to give up. Neither Jason nor she had found anything besides a lot of dirt, a few broken twigs, and the knowledge that they had just wasted their time.

They returned back inside, leaving the light outside behind, to become one with the shadow once more. There was no good news to be delivered – only tension and anger.

Steph hated leaving the light behind – but the darkness was the way of the Bat. And she knew there would be no one else waiting for her at home, should she choose her own apartment over the Manor. Cass had made her choice. It was time for Steph to make hers.

And for the sake of Damian, for the sake of this kid Steph had come to love, she would choose Batman.

Even if the man didn’t deserve it. Even if Steph would only burn herself again, she chose Batman, to hopefully bring Damian back home.

The black of the Cave swallowed her and Steph hoped that she wouldn’t come to regret this. That just this once Bruce wouldn’t disappoint.

She could hear Jason follow her down.

The Red Hood had made his choice as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, Kudos and Bookmarks make me VERY happy! <3<3<3


	13. Of Broken Trust and Nightmares - the Red Mask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Red Mask knew this dream - and he remembered being Jason Todd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome back, my dear readers!!!  
> I hope you are ready for this! Both Talon and Red Mask are gonna get very angsty in this - which is probably while I love this chapter so much!  
> Remember: A little love and feedback goes a long way <3
> 
> Warning: Implied Past Sexual Abuse (nothing gets said, but what Red Mask _doesn't_ say is important here. Abduction. Non-Graphic Torture. Sad, Sad Times For Everyone. Temporary Character Death.

The Red Mask recognized this alleyway, and how could he not? This was where it had all started after all.

It was Crime Alley after dark. The dirty brimstone walls looked slimy under the yellow light of the single streetlamp that was still working properly, the night seemed more dangerous and deep. Of course, Red Mask knew this place. He had spent the most important parts of his childhood in here after all.

But why had he returned to this dirt hole? This street that only deserved to be burned down by the fire of his hatred?

He raised one of his hands to scratch the skin under his chin – a tick that helped him think – when he noticed something else as well: It weren’t the glove-clad hands of the Red Mask that greeted him as he moved, but the dirty paws of street rat Jason Todd.

A dream then.

_Fuck._

Jason hated this dream.

He was always so helpless in it. So small and vulnerable and easy to exploit.

And now that he knew, now that he was aware that he was no longer twenty-seven but ten years old… he could feel it as well. Hunger was gnawing on his stomach lining. Jason would kill for the chance of a fresh bread roll just for himself.

His clothes weren’t made for nights like these, the fog over Gotham claiming every ounce of warmth Jason had to give. His threadbare red hoodie did little to protect him from Gotham and her elements, from Gotham and her claim on him. He was freezing and hungry and oh, so small.

He wouldn’t cry. He couldn’t cry.

The Red Mask hadn’t cried in years, and he wouldn’t start now just because he was Jason again. Just because he could feel the hunger again that burned so deep it threatened to make you go crazy. Or the cold that left you alone and lonely and shivering.

He knew how this dream would go. He knew what would happen next. And yet Jason could feel himself take a step back when he saw the car that some idiot had parked in the entrance of Crime Alley.

He couldn’t help but notice how sleek it was, pretty and new, how unlike anything Jason had ever seen before. Jason had been ready to steal some food but looking at this car – this masterpiece of engineering – he couldn’t help but think of the tire iron he had snatched the last time Penguin’s goons asked for help during a job.

‘ _Don’t do it, Hoe_ ’ Red Mask wanted to yell, but he knew it would be useless. He was Jason, after all. And the child of that night stepped forward, tire iron clutched in shaking and nervous hands, before kneeling down on the dirty ground to get to work.

His fingers were nimble even in the cold, and Jason knew exactly what to do, what bolt to twist when. It was almost as if he had done this a thousand times before – and, Red Mask mused, that he had in his dreams.

Soon, the first hub came undone, and the metal glinted in the sparse light. This was good quality. This would buy him food for weeks. But if one tire would be enough money for a few weeks, all four of them would keep him afloat for months.

Just the idea of warm bread or soup sent pangs of hunger through his stomach, a reminder that it had been days since he last got a chance to eat anything more substantial than the apple he had snatched from Granny McCathy.

And now came what turned all his dreams into nightmares.

Now came the part where all Jason wanted to do was run away and stop himself from continuing. Now came the part where Red Mask was yelling at himself to not be greedy, to be something else besides an alley rat desperate to survive.

Because Jason continued. He carefully placed the hub behind him, checking the entrances of the street in both directions – _but never the roof, he always forgot about the roof_ – and made his way towards the second tire. His iron had barely connected with the bolt when he felt a shadow touch down behind him.

It was Red Mask that knew which terrors would come, what horrors this encounter would fester, but Jason was also frozen, panic making his heart beat faster and his hands still.

**Batman.**

Batman had come.

And he would take Jason and he would twist him and turn him and break him apart.

“Are you hungry?”

Batman’s voice was silky smooth, and Jason wanted to throw up. They must have skipped ahead, because suddenly Jason was standing in front of the Darkest Shadow, tire iron raised like a weapon, mouth agape in shock.

“What?”

“I asked, if you are hungry? No strings attached – you just look like you could use a good meal.”

_RUN!_

But Jason didn’t run. Jason was just a street rat, an alley kid. Jason was just so, so hungry and so, so cold. Jason just wanted to have some food for once, even if that meant following Batman. Even if that meant breaking the rule everyone knew about.

And who would have thought that Stranger Danger also applied to Batman?

Shadows swallowed Jason, and Red Mask just wanted for this nightmare to end.

It didn’t end.

It never ended.

Jason was older now, but he was sitting in the same alley as before. His clothes were a bit thicker this time, and his stomach was full, his insides warm with the knowledge that he would make his dad proud today.

Batman was the best thing that ever happened to him.

Batman was the worst thing that ever happened to him.

Red Mask knew what would follow, and once again there was nothing he could do to change the course of the dream, the course of his memories. Not while he was so small. Not while he was Jason, instead of the Red Mask that terrified everyone.

Jason was a kid who loved his dad. A kid who loved Batman and wanted to become just like him. The Red Mask wanted nothing more than Batman’s blood painting his gloves red.

And Jason was happy right now. That was probably the weirdest part. Red Mask could barely remember what it must have felt like, to be happy and unburdened by the horrors of the world. But whenever he was caught up in this particular nightmare, he was reminded of the fact that, once upon a time, Jason had been a happy kid.

That Jason had been overjoyed to help Batman.

That Jason had been the one who told Batman that he could help investigate Black Mask.

That Jason had smiled and grinned and danced just to convince his dad to let him lead the infiltration into Black Mask’s operations.

That Jason had nodded seriously, not quite grasping the weight of it, when Batman told him that he would have to play the long game. That he wouldn’t just return home tomorrow, but that the case could take a few months, maybe even years.

None of that was real, of course. But Jason had to grow up to figure that out. It had been the Red Mask who realized that Batman was the one pulling the strings all along. That it had never been Jason who made a choice, but always Batman who manipulated him until he said and wanted the right thing.

The right thing like the one he was waiting for right now.

Jason was happy, but Red Mask wanted to die.

The night was chilly, not as freezing as the one before, but cold nevertheless. Jason pulled his hoodie tighter, a warmer version of the one he had worn all those years ago. He liked red clothes, the color so vibrant in a city as bleak as Gotham.

He would miss Sunday dinner while he was with Black Mask, but Jason was okay with that. Being a hero came at a cost and askesis was an important part of becoming a warrior. Bruce had taught him that. Jason wanted to become a warrior. Or a fighter. Or a hero.

Maybe he would even become something as cool as Batman.

The sound of a car coming closer ripped Jason from his thoughts, and Red Mask was scared by how easy it was to return to the mindset of his past-self. For a moment he had been this Jason, this thirteen-year-old kid, who thought missing Sunday Roast was the worst his future had in store for him.

It was frightening, to see how successful Batman had been in stripping Jason’s defenses away until only something soft and malleable remained. Though street rat Jason Todd would never have said yes to an undertaking like this – but Jason Todd, honorary son of Bruce Wayne… he ate that shit right up.

The car parked at the other end of the alley, and Jason watched as a group of men got out, all of them dressed in suits, all of them gravitating around one man in particular: The Black Mask. Jason could see the black skull mask all the way from the other end of the alley, and even happy-kid Jason couldn’t quell the shiver that wrecked his body at the sight of that man.

So much horror. So much pain.

He wanted to run. He wanted to cry. But it was the Red Mask that wanted these things, while Jason continued to watch as the men left the car behind, entering one of the adjourned buildings to take care of some business or another. Just as Batman had said they would. Just as the plan promised they would.

He was silent as he dashed forward towards their car, the tire iron heavy in his pocket.

The plan was simple: Do exactly the same thing you did the first time around. Steal the hub caps of the Black Mask’s car, let yourself be caught, try to defend yourself… and when the Black Mask offers to take you with him, say yes.

_SAY NO!_

But Red Mask already knew what would happen. Already knew that Jason would cower and bleed and say yes.

The tires were easy to conquer, his skill honed by Batman and the dreams that forced him to live through the horror again and again. The first hub fell, the second quick to follow.

And then every hair at the base of his skull started to tingle, his muscles freezing up, his breath only coming in short puffs of panic.

The Black Mask was here.

“Oh, what do we have here? A small little rat who thinks it can steal from the big guys?”

_RUN! JUST RUN! NO!_

Jason didn’t run. Instead he turned around, his eyes wide, his body shaking.

The Black Mask was standing in front of him, suit fitted to his body like a second skin. There was no way Jason could tell what his face looked like beneath the skull mask, but Red Mask knew that Roman was grinning.

Roman was always grinning when he met his victims. He was always grinning when he got a chance to inflict pain.

For a split second Jason wavered, unsure if this was really the best plan, the best idea, and then he swung the tire iron, aiming for one of the goons dressed in shadows behind Black Mask. The iron never connected with anyone, being painfully ripped from his hands before it had completed its arch.

Reality rippled, the dream folded, and Jason was kneeling on the dirty alley ground, face bloody, the palms of his hands scratched raw from the rough floor. He was in pain. His entire side was burning, and tears threatened to spill down his cheeks, making everything worse, making the pain so much more real.

“What do you have to say for yourself, child?”

“Fuck you.”

In that moment Jason didn’t care, and Red Mask didn’t either. He just wanted this to end. He just wanted for the terror of days past to be over.

“Hah! I like you, kid! I really, really do. You have spunk. You need to learn manners first, of course, but I could imagine that we will make a great team one day. What do you say? Do you want to come with me? Work with me?”

_No! SAY NO! PLEASE!_

Jason worried his lips between his teeth, the blood dripping down his chin a bit of a distraction. Batman told him what to do. Jason wanted to make his dad proud. Batman would know what was right. Batman always knew what was right.

“Yeah…”

“What did you say?”

“Um… yes, Mr. Black Mask, sir… I would like to come with you.”

Red Mask could only watch as shadows claimed him once more, knowing that no matter what happened, he couldn’t change what happened to him. He would always just be forced to live through it again and again and again.

Experience the horror anew each time.

The rest was thankfully only a mess of flashes, his own brain not capable of remembering all the horrible things that happened to him. Or maybe he just no longer knew what was real and what was fake. But young brains reacted to trauma by pushing it away, by twisting it until it was no longer something real. Often it was only the nightmares that prevailed.

A nightmare like this.

There was darkness, and the darkness stayed so long that it became a thing, almost a person. Jason talked to the darkness, cried with it, yelled at it, begged for it to go away.

And Red Mask still remembered the first time the darkness lifted, Roman standing in the doorway of the room Jason had been locked in like an angel of salvation, asking for only one thing:

“And how do you talk to me, boy?”

“Mister Sionis, sir.”

“That is correct.”

But the nightmare didn’t let Jason linger on the pain that had rooted itself deep in his mind through forced sensory deprivation. Instead, the darkness claimed him again, only lifting short enough for him to see himself kneeling in front of Black Mask, begging on the floor, tears streaming down his face.

For once, his mind was compliant, swallowing him before he was forced to relieve that particular horror as well.

There was so much that had gone wrong in his life, so much that had turned Jason into the Red Mask, that it felt like a shock when he returned to _that time and place_ once more. He felt more like himself, more like the man he would one day become, only that a few things were still missing.

Only that the Red Mask knew exactly what kind of night this was.

What evening his own mind decided to torture him with now.

They were at the docks, many of Black Mask’s men running around, shouting things that sounded muffled, as if they were at the bottom of the ocean. Jason wanted to ask them what they meant, what was going on, but his own voice wasn’t working either.

Red Mask knew why. But Jason had no idea. Jason was just scared.

Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

They moved towards the warehouse the deal was supposed to happen in, and every step felt as if his shoes had been filled with lead, as if he was wandering through molasses. As if his body knew what was going to happen while his mind still struggled to find the correct puzzle pieces.

As if his mind was still trying to find the fitting memories from the fragments of Jason’s skull that had been left.

Jason would die tonight – and Red Mask could do nothing to stop that.

Instead he was forced to navigate his body into the warehouse, going through the motions of a deal without hearing a single word, without speaking anything but gibberish. Without knowing who he was dealing with. They were shaking hands, signaling for their men to finish unpacking when the first explosion hit.

Jason didn’t even know what his own name was anymore by the time his body hit one of the crates, propelled against it by the force of the blast.

Red Mask remembered dying – but his nightmare forced him to live through it anyway.

The confusion sat heavy on his tongue because he hit his head, everything a dancing mess of burning red and poisonous grey. Their deal was probably done now, washed down the drain, just as their bodies would be once the fire consumed them.

He watched as the flames licked his boots, as it became harder and harder to breathe.

He wanted to run. He wanted Batman to save him. But all he could do was wait, his leg twisted in the wrong direction, his brain too confused to even work through the pain.

He waited too long. His eyes were heavy, his chest burning, his eyes imagining the shape of a bat in the rafters of the warehouse, when the second explosion sent his world tilting sideways.

Red Mask remembered dying – and he would always remember it, some part of him never leaving this warehouse behind. Some part of him never overcoming the disappointment and hopelessness of lying on the floor in a sea of his blood, only to know that nobody would come and save him.

Jason took his last breaths crying in pain, his chest a burning mess, his legs broken, his hope crushed.

Jason Peter Todd died in a warehouse fire started by Penguin’s goons, trying to disrupt Black Mask’s deal with the Red Night Foxes – something that didn’t impact Black Mask’s business at all, but cost Jason his life.

The Red Mask had found out about all of that later – Jason only knew that he was alone.

Sometimes his nightmares ended here, sending him back into his own body with the memories of his death at the forefront of his mind. The days that followed nights like these were harsh, Jason always aware of his own demise, Red Mask more on edge than he tended to be on a good day.

Other nights were like this:

Green. And Anger. And Searing Pain.

_**RAGE.** _

_**HORROR.** _

_**WRONGNESS.** _

People weren’t made to come back, and Jason knew that from the moment he opened his eyes, from the moment his eyes focused on the ceiling of a cave.

He was back.

And he wanted to be dead once more.

Some nights Jason’s nightmares ended here, leaving him raging and angry and hurtful and lost, craving death while bringing it to those that harmed him.

Other nights were like this:

Flashes of rain. The Gotham harbor docks. A lone phone booth only illuminated by the raging storm surrounding it. Numb fingers typing a number burned into memory, no matter how broken they might be.

The sound of dialing.

Then a CLICK.

“Roman Sionis speaking. How did you get this number?”

“Hello, Mister Sionis.”

“Todd. I thought you were dead. I buried you. Paid for the funeral.”

“Sorry I died. I will make it up to you. Can we meet?”

“The usual place. Meet me there in thirty minutes.”

A loud BEEP. The knowledge of what would happen next. The knowledge of what Jason had to do. The knowledge that it would end today, no matter if Jason succeeded or failed.

On some days Jason woke up to this, shame burning him from the inside out, panic and confusion leaving him fragile and fast to explode.

But no matter where his dreams ended, what the last thing was that he remembered, waking up always hit him like a sledgehammer.

Waking up always left him reeling and gasping for air.

It was no different this time around. Only that it wasn’t his penthouse suite that greeted him, but something that looked suspiciously like a cell. He was dressed in a soft gown and a myriad of bandages, an IV connected to his arm – which was probably the reason why he wasn’t currently screaming in pain.

His dreams were always the worst when he was on meds.

Everything was fuzzy and slow as he attempted to take in his surroundings: He was laying on a cot, in a cell with a wall made out of glass, and on the other side of that wall… was a cave. No. The Cave.

He was in the Batman’s Cave. And with that realization the memories of the last few hours came back.

He had traveled through the multiverse, had met his alternate self, had fought this different version of himself and had lost due to a mixture of making mistakes on purpose and feeling slightly unbalanced after his trip through the portal. It had been his first time after all.

And now he was here. In the heart of Batman’s operation. In the center of that bastard’s life.

He couldn’t wait for Batman’s blood to spill, for his head to be severed from his body. Jason wanted to see him dead and he would make sure he got what he wanted. But first… first he would rest, his body a mess after the rage of his double trying to kill him, his mind reeling after the flashes of days gone by doing their best to mess him up.

At least that was the plan, his eyes falling shut again, the morphine cursing through his veins ready to bring more sleep and more nightmares. But a flash of movement in the corner of his eyes kept him awake. Aware.

His eyes flew open once more.

Talon was standing in front of him. No. Talon stood on the other side of the glass.

On the other side of this barrier that declared one of them a prisoner and one of them free.

Jason knew which one of these he was:

“And? How is it to be a pet again? Happy to no longer have a free will?”

His voice sounded weak, unacceptable for someone like the Red Mask. But he was winded, his chest not capable of expanding far enough to draw in a satisfying breath. Just this once a rough whisper would have to do.

Talon’s hearing was good enough after all. The creepy stalker didn’t need Jason to yell to be able to hear him.

The blank face didn’t react to Jason’s taunt, but it wasn’t as if he had forgotten the fury in Talon’s gaze when Jason insinuated something more sinister earlier. Or the knife Talon had been ready to throw.

You just had to push Talon further than most to get a reaction:

“Did they chain you yet? Look at you. All your fancy gear is gone. The knives you were so proud of. The suit design you spent years on finalizing. All gone. And for what? To be a perfect little soldier once more.”

This time Jason could see the flinch, could see the tension in the clenched jaw. He wouldn’t be surprised if Talon accidentally broke his own jaw by biting down too hard – the Talon had been prone to doing so in the past.

It was weird to look at Talon, to see the un-dead flesh, and the gleaming eyes, and to remind himself that they had worked alongside each other for years.

That Talon had agreed to kill Batman when Damian had asked him if he would go along with their plan.

And Talon had supported it, planning his own involvement in this stilted way of his, repeating key phrases until one of them understood, or drawing up plans that never used any words at all.

Talon had been an integral part of their plan, had been the King of the Court for ages by then, and he had known how Batman worked and functioned – maybe even better than the rest of them.

And then the Bastard of the Other Dimension had shown up…

Jason liked to pretend that he hadn’t been swayed, that the words of comfort and justice hadn’t gotten to him, but he knew better than that.

He had been weak. He had caved. And he had come to pay the price for it.

Now here they were, Talon and Red Mask once more, only this time Talon had already betrayed them. Talon had already chosen a side – and he had chosen slavery once more.

“You aren’t going to defend yourself? Did they steal your precious words as well? Did they take everything you are proud of? Wow… Talon, I would have thought that you are better than this. You were a King. Now you are barely more than a cockroach. Hard to kill, and a pest as long as it’s not controlled.”

“Silent! Red Mask! Silent!”

Talon’s chest was heaving, the rough voice loud – but not too loud. Red Mask was pretty sure that Talon had used the exact amount of strength behind his words that would go undetected. Talon wasn’t stupid – he was just simple.

“You want me to shut up? Come in here and do it yourself. But – oh no! Your new masters won’t want that, do they? They told you _No Killing_ , and you are going to obey. They want me alive. Guess what… one of us is free and the other one is laying in chains… and it ain’t me that they managed to tie down.”

“Why is Red Mask here? Why this Batman? This Master? Can’t Red Mask take other Batman?”

“If only it were that easy…”

Their eyes met, neither of them looking away.

It was true. This Batman had to die first.

They couldn’t touch their own Bruce, couldn’t touch the man that had hurt them all, but they could reach this one. And they would make it hurt.

Jason had read his fair share of books – had even studied psychology for a bit when he got bored after his return. He knew that his fixation on killing the Batman that had visited them over a year ago was a simple case of redirection.

He couldn’t touch the person who wronged him because said person had a position of power over him, so his emotions redirected themselves onto a person that was safe to hate and hurt and hunt.

But knowing something and doing something about it where two very different things.

He wanted to see his hands painted bloody and he wanted to stare into the dead eyes of Bruce Wayne – his dad – knowing that Jason’s face had been the last thing he ever saw. He wanted _that._

Knowing that in the end Batman felt the same pain Jason had had to live through. Died for.

The same pain that had turned a teenager into a seven-hundred-year-old crazy dude.

The same pain that had made a nice kid into one of the worst psychopaths Jason had ever encountered.

The same pain that had twisted a loving child into the undead husk of a person, ready to bow to whoever claimed him first.

Bruce Wayne would bleed and die and suffer.

“Make it easy. This Batman, Talon’s Batman. Take different one.”

“That’s not how revenge works, and you know it. He is the one who interfered when all of us got together to kill Bruce. He is the one that made sure we are being hunted in our own universe. He has to die – even if the only thing that changes is that I sleep a bit more soundly at night.”

Talon didn’t understand, Jason could see it in a face that told him nothing. Talon didn’t understand – even if he was probably the person who thought the most like Jason in that regard:

Talon was the one who had abandoned their world, their Bruce, in favor of this cheap copy after all.

“And… how is it to be a tool again? Does it give you the happy tingles whenever he orders you around? Do you get all excited before you fall to your knees, ready to serve? Or do you hate that you know what freedom tastes like? Do you hate the fact that you comply even though you have a will of your own?”

A better man would have let the topic drop, would have stopped pressing the first time Talon showed signs of distress, but Jason might not be a bad man, but he most certainly wasn’t a good one.

Shame flickered across Talon’s face, a reaction so slight, someone less used to the expressionless mask Talon liked to call a face would probably not have seen it. But Jason had. And he knew what that meant:

“Oh… you do, don’t you? You hate that they can order you around. _You hate it_. But this is what you wanted: A Batman that is not a monster. And now you… now you follow his very command because you are supposed to like it. But you hate it. Aren’t you just a tragedy waiting to happen?”

“Shut up! Talon loves Batman. Talon loves its Dad. Its Master. Red Mask, shut up…”

Damian always complained that Jason was the most humane out of all four of them, that in some ways Jason was more person than the rest, and in this moment, he almost believed the brat.

Talon was a tragedy. Just looking at him now, at the panicked, wide-eyed stare, at the heaving, breathless chest, at the distress bleeding from his every pore… Jason’s heart broke a little for the undead assassin. It was a part of him Jason never allowed himself to destroy, the fact that he still had an ounce of compassion left after all that he had survived, all he had done, the one thing that kept him going.

The one thing that gave him hope.

But it was also the one thing that made him feel for people like Talon. For someone so broken and lost that Jason would feel bad for killing them, even if he knew that it was necessary.

Jason hoped that someone would weep for Talon once his corpse had finally come to rest – he deserved it, he deserved for someone to grief the boy Talon had once been, the man he could have become, and the assassin that had only wanted a family.

If no one would cry for Talon, Jason would be the one to do so.

But that didn’t mean that he wouldn’t also be the one to kill him.

Neither the Red Mask nor the Demon’s Head liked traitors in their midst.

“You know I am right. You hate it here, after you promised yourself to love it. Does it hurt that Batman has other soldiers as well? Does it hurt that he is nice to them? That he loves them? He doesn’t love you. You are just a faulty copy of the man he calls his son. You betrayed us for _this_. You sacrificed your own free will for this. Not gonna lie… that was pretty stupid of you.”

“Talon is not stupid.”

“I know… but do they? Or do they look at you and see a brain-dead puppet with cut strings?”

Jason was very aware of the horrors he went through to be molded into what he was now, but he only had the barest ideas of what Talon had went through. It was hard to find out, Talon having forgotten almost everything that had come before the Court. So, Damian, Jason, and Tim had only been able to speculate about what the training of a Talon entailed.

But Jason was pretty sure that some permanent brain-damage had been dealt. He had found the records of Dick on the computer in the Cave after all, had found statistics and reports of a bright young boy with a great future ahead of him – looking at Talon struggling to find words that must have come so easy to him once upon a time, told Jason enough.

It just made him crave Bruce’s blood so much more.

“Talon is not stupid. Talon just… Talon just loves its dad.”

“I am sure you do…”

The silence laid over them like a blanket, stifling any loud emotion Jason might have felt. The morphine wanted to drag him under, the haunted eyes of Talon kept him awake. The pain ablaze in his chest and arms felt like a distant memory.

It felt like home.

Talon wasn’t the only lost boy around here, only that Jason had decided to become Captain Hook instead of trusting Peter Pan once more.

“If you won’t kill me and if I can’t change your mind… why are you here, Talon? I am tired.”

“Talon… Talon won’t let you kill its Dad. It will defend him. It will stand by his side.”

“Of course, you will. But when will you learn to defend yourself?”

“Talon can’t die. Talon is made to die.”

“That’s what I thought you’d say.”

Jason was tired. Oh, so tired. He knew there were only nightmares waiting for him should he close his eyes, but even that sounded so much better than being caught in this conversation any longer.

Talon had betrayed them. Talon would have to die. And Jason’s heart would bleed for the ally they lost, for the boy who never got a chance to grow up.

“Go. Let me sleep. You can creepily stare at me tomorrow again. Go! Shush!”

For a long moment Talon didn’t move, his eyes glued to Jason’s form, his body looking almost naked without all the knives and the uniform Jason knew Talon loved adjourning it. And then he turned around, his steps silent as he returned into the depths of the Cave, until Jason could no longer spot him.

Fucking ninja assassins and their silent steps.

His eyes trailed after Talon before the heaviness in his lids returned, before they closed without Jason telling them to do so.

He would sleep again. He would dream again.

The nightmares could claim him if that meant that he no longer had to stare at the dark Cave and the memories it hid.

The Red Mask had a plan – now it was only time to wait. To heal. To remain cautious.

The Red Mask had a plan – he went to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hearing your thoughts is the best thing I can hope for!! (and are you ready for some more Dick?)


	14. Falling Down - Dick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But a migraine from hell had kept him locked up inside his Blüdhaven apartment for the past few days, and with each pulse of pain through his entire body from head to toe, Dick had lost a bit of his composure, a bit of his control. And then the SOS signal had come in, summoning Dick to the Cave on a night – morning, really – on which he wanted to do nothing more than curl up and cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome back!  
> This and the next chapter (Bruce) were originally one chapter, but they almost popped 9k, so my betas decided to split them :D 
> 
> Warnings: Suicidal thoughts, Dissociation, Depression, Panic Attacks - Dick is not having a fun time

Dick knew he was supposed to be sleeping.

But how could he do that, if Damian was missing?

They had sent him to his room as if he was still a child, and Dick had gone, because it was Alfred who told him to do so. He knew his fight with Bruce in the Cave was dumb, he knew that it was irresponsible and only cost them time. But… But Dick wasn’t able to stop.

The anger and the irritation that had taken a hold of him down there had drained every rational thought from his brain. He had yelled and begged and behaved like a child with no impulse control.

He was supposed to be better than this.

He was better than this. _Normally_.

But a migraine from hell had kept him locked up inside his Blüdhaven apartment for the past few days, and with each pulse of pain through his entire body from head to toe, Dick had lost a bit of his composure, a bit of his control. And then the SOS signal had come in, summoning Dick to the Cave on a night – morning, really – on which he wanted to do nothing more than curl up and cry.

And now here he was: Damian was missing and Dick was not allowed to help. He had been sent to his room, restless energy keeping him awake, the last remnants of the migraine keeping him tense.

It was infuriating to only be allowed to stare at his own bedroom walls, but he knew that Alfred would find him the moment he left his room behind. The grandfather-butler was creepy like that, and Dick didn’t have the energy to endure another fight. Or another scolding.

He just wanted Damian back.

He wanted to hug the little body of his kid against his chest. He wanted Damian’s long face whenever Dick tried to force him to have fun. He wanted the annoyed eyebrow raise, and the gleeful grin after patrol. He wanted… he wanted his kid back.

He wanted that time again, when both of them had been whole. When Damian hadn’t died yet, before Dick “died” and Bruce forgot all of them. Before Dick became Ric – before Ric became Dick once more, leaving him broken and falling and failing.

He would even gladly carry the Cowl again if only that meant that he would have Damian by his side.

It was no secret that Dick had been missing his Baby Bat – the connection to another human – but now that Damian was gone, kidnapped, taken, a new fear took hold of his heart: What if Damian never came home at all?

What if Dick never got a chance to let the rift between them heal?

What if their relationship would forever stagnate in this weird state they were currently in: With Dick craving any kind of positive touch and Damian only allowing it when Dick was asleep, when he could be sure that Dick wasn’t awake enough to accidentally hurt him with his words again.

Because Dick knew that he had broken something inside of Damian the first time he looked at him and asked “who are you?”.

Even though he _knew_ that it wasn’t his fault that he had forgotten everything – that a bullet hit him and knocked Dick out, leaving only Ric to take the controls – he wanted to beg for forgiveness.

Maybe the world would love him again if he did that.

Maybe he only had to sacrifice what was left of his pride in order to get his family back. His friends back. His son back.

Or maybe that was the headache speaking, the sleepless nights, and the fact that Damian’s disappearance had shaken him more than he would ever admit to anybody else.

A kidnapping like this was nothing special. It happened all the time. Dick himself had once been nicknamed the Kidnapping Wonder. But still…

It hit differently when it was your kid.

It hit differently when you knew it was the evil version of said kid that had taken him.

And wasn’t that just an entirely different bag to unpack?

Talon was almost a normal part of the Manor at this point. Dick had grown used to him, had tried to include him in his routine whenever he visited the Manor, even if he wasn’t sure if Talon liked it or not.

But still, from what Dick had been able to gather, Talon joined the family during breakfast, before vanishing into the long hallways, either to help Alfred or to search for perches to hide on.

Dick was sure that Talon was a person. _Probably_. That not every bit of personality and free will had been beaten out of him… but no matter how hard he tried; Talon only rarely reacted. And his own unease only rarely drained away to give room for something more.

Dick wanted Talon to have a life. A future. Independence and a free will. But whenever he looked at him, whenever he saw the golden eyes, the black veins decorating pale, pale white skin… Dick remembered that he had almost become _this_. That he could have been in Talon’s place.

But it would only make his headache worse if he focused too hard on what could have been. It was easier to remain in the present. Safer as well.

Talon was no longer the only one.

Red Mask, a version of Jason that was noticeably older than his little bro by a couple of years, was currently sleeping in one of the Cave’s holding cells. And with him Jason had returned home.

Dick didn’t know exactly how long Jason had been gone, but the context clues left in the tension of the Cave told him that it must have been quite a while. Dick had been gone for most of that as well, so he couldn’t be sure how long exactly. The only thing missing now was the _why_.

Why had Jason been gone? Why hadn’t his brother called or visited or asked? Why was the tension between Jason and Bruce even colder than usual?

But that could wait.

First, Damian.

Not that Dick had any clue what he was supposed to do. He was limited to these four walls, to the duvet that had kept him warm since he was nine, and the posters on the wall Dick had always decorated his room in the Manor with, no matter how often he moved across the hallway.

He surprised himself sometimes, when he remembered things and it suddenly felt as if he had known said information his entire life. The duvet was such a thing.

One moment it had been just some duvet in a room he desperately wanted to escape from, and suddenly it was _the_ duvet.

The duvet Bruce had used to huddle him up with before they went to bed, whenever it had gotten too cold while they were out on patrol.

The duvet Dick had cried on when his first crush told him _no_ after he asked the guy out during school when he was fifteen.

The duvet Dick had looked at and decided against taking with him the very first time he left.

It was weird to see this blue, slightly worn fabric and know that it had history, that it had just unlocked another part of Dick Grayson he hadn’t known about.

He wanted to cry.

It was just too much. Too much emotion. Too much pain. Too much memory.

Damian had been kidnapped and there was nothing Dick could do but wait for Alfred to get him and tell him that he could help again. There was nothing for him to do here besides running in circles, wearing down the carpet on the floor in the process.

Nightwing had been a hero once. He only felt like a failure right now.

There was a soft knock on his door, and for a moment Dick dared to hope, dared to allow the wishful thinking that it was Alfred who had come to get him. But he wasn’t that foolish:

“Yes?”

“Hey…”

It was Jason, who entered his room. Jason, who had rings so deep underneath his eyes they almost rivaled Dick’s. Jason, who hadn’t been at the Manor for a year because of a reason Dick didn’t know.

“What do you want?”

There was no time for small talk. Maybe that made him an asshole. But if one of them could understand being an asshole then it was Jason – the guy had been one for as long as Dick could remember.

(notice the joke – Dick didn’t have all that much he could recall)

“I… You… I wanted to check in on you. You pretty much lost it downstairs and I had the vague feeling that you wouldn’t be sleeping yet.”

Rivaling emotions battled in Dick’s chest.

It had been so long since someone came to him in honest worry – not in the twisted sense of guilt Bruce carried with himself everywhere. Not with the anger and the pain Barbara adorned herself with. Not with the distance that greeted him whenever he looked in Tim’s eyes. Cass’s. Damian’s.

And here was Jason asking him if he was alright.

But the other side of him wanted to roar in rage. _Pretty much lost it_. Hah, as if Dick didn’t have any reason to lose it. As if he wasn’t constantly falling apart. As if he wasn’t one giant mess since the day a bullet turned his brain into mush.

Okay, let’s be real, Dick had been a mess before that as well. Not that he could remember it, but some of his bad moods felt almost too familiar.

But… but now Damian was missing, and Jason dared to accuse him of losing it.

“I am fine. Thank you for caring. Oh, and _thank you_ for visiting while I was in the hospital, _ass_ , I am doing just fine!”

His sarcasm was scathing, and he felt bad almost as soon as he spat the words out. Only he really didn’t. Dick was sick of being nice. Sick of being understanding and okay and dealing. Coping. Fuck, he hated every single one of these words.

He just wanted for his world to be okay again. He just wanted to be alright again. In control.

He missed the Dick Grayson everyone seemed to remember.

But he hadn’t counted on Jason’s reaction to his words. He had expected anger or rage or maybe even violence. His fists had been itching for a fight. But instead of satisfying Dick’s self-destructive streak, Jason paled.

His brother’s voice was dangerously low when he spoke next:

“Hospital? What the fuck happened, Dick? And how would I have visited? I got deleted from the email server. I have been thrown out of this shitshow called a family.”

The world came to a halt, Dick stopping in his attempts to fidget:

“What?”

“Dick, you were there. I remember you being on the fucking comms when Bruce took my Bat away. Shit, I’ll never forget it. Because I counted on you coming for me. But you didn’t, you absolute asshole. You just let that bastard throw me away, after all the times you told me that we ‘ _are a family’_ ”

Dick heard the quotation marks, but his brain didn’t compute.

He couldn’t remember that. He didn’t remember that.

He was more than aware of the holes in his memories, of the fact that most of the time these days he only remembered facts and feelings but not actual events. He knew who everyone was, their names and ages and hero personas. But he couldn’t recall the time he taught Tim how to drive stick – he only knew that it had happened. He didn’t remember the first time he kissed Babs. Or Wally. Or Kory. But he had the vague feeling that he had.

But this… this whole memory just missing… that was new.

Dick didn’t like it. It felt like another bit of lost control. Another bit of Dick Grayson pushed out of reach.

How much of his life was still lost to him even after he had finally thought to have gotten it back?

“Dick? Hey… Dick. DICK!”

Someone was calling his name, and he returned to his body with a snap, his senses coming back online, his heart hammering in his chest. Jason looked worried, and only now did Dick notice that there was someone touching him. Jason. That someone was Jason. He was shaking Dick.

Maybe he had zoned out again.

That happened to him sometimes now.

“Dickface! Look at me. What the fuck was that?”

There was fear laced throughout Jason’s voice, and Dick had the feeling that his brother was shaking, but only a little bit. He couldn’t focus on that, though, his brain still too obsessed with this new information it had been given:

“I don’t remember… I don’t remember that happening, Jay… I…”

Maybe there were tears dripping down his cheeks. Episodes always left him reeling, the world no longer real, only the chaos inside of his brain being able to touch him.

His words did nothing to sooth Jason. No, the man in question looked even more spooked now, something so honestly concerned on his face that Dick longed for it, wanted to touch it and keep it close to his heart.

“Dick? Is everything alright? Are you on drugs? I won’t judge. Promise. Okay, I will judge a little bit, but nothing we can’t work through, okay? Just… are you okay?”

Jason had been angry only minutes ago, Dick was pretty sure of that. But now he sounded soft and cautious.

Jason had a history with drugs, his mind offered, his mom had been an addict. This was probably a triggering situation for his little brother, Dick would have to look after him, but first… he needed to sit down and keep the world from spinning.

Jason went down with him, his knees folding neatly underneath him, his ass hitting the floor with a silent thump.

“You okay there? Okay… we are sitting down. Everything is fine. Nothing scary going on at all… everything is just fucking peachy.”

Dick knew – _he knew_ – that Jason was talking to himself as a method to stay calm. He had always done that – even as a small boy, barely a teenager, when he first went out as Robin. Jason liked to comment on everything. He thought it made him look witty, but Dick remembered teasing him, saying it made him seem like a cartoon character.

The memory threatened to make him smile.

Had he already known that half an hour ago? Or had he just now found this puzzle piece hidden in what was left of his brain?

“I got shot in the head.”

“What?”

“I got shot in the head. I don’t remember you being… Bruce throwing you out. I got shot in the head.”

Was that his voice? Yes. Yes, it was.

The world was returning to its working order slowly, the floor no longer swaying, Dick’s insides no longer splitting apart. He still had a killer headache, but it was nothing on the feeling of the floor falling apart beneath his feet that had overcome him minutes earlier.

It was months since he had gotten lost like this.

But, well, it made sense. The migraine, the sleepless nights, and the added stress of Damian being kidnapped… his body could only take so much, his brain even less.

“Dickie… what the fuck are you talking about?”

Jason was here. Jason was still here, kneeling next to Dick, one steadying hand on his shoulder, concern etched deep into his face.

They were a mess. Dick was just so tired, and Jason didn’t look all that much better. Dick’s throat was dry when he swallowed, the motion reminding him of things he didn’t want to think about and the fact that… that Jason didn’t know:

“I got shot. Eleven months or so ago… took a bullet to the brain. Didn’t wake up whole again.”

“Yeah, I kind of noticed.”

“No… Dick was gone. I… I was a blank slate, Jay. And next to all the shit a TBI puts you through anyway – I fucking had to learn how to walk again! – the fucking Court of Owls made… it locked my memories so deep inside of me… Jay, I am back but I still only remember so little.”

This was maybe the first time Dick was the one who shared his story. It was a mess of jumbled bits but… all the other times it had been Bruce. First in the hospital, when Bruce told a confused Ric what had happened, and then later, when Bruce made it his job to inform everyone.

Everyone, well, except Jason.

Dick had never gotten a chance to tell anyone what it had felt like. How… _lost_ he had been. And now Jason was sitting in front of him, this brother he hadn’t seen in ages, because apparently Bruce had thrown the man out… before Dick had been blown to bits.

They had other things to worry about, other Robins to save, but Jason wasn’t ready to let it go either:

“You are back?”

“I… I am back. I am Dick again. And in the family. I… I just need to figure some stuff out…”

“Dick” – there was a dangerous tone to Jason’s voice – “I want you to tell me what exactly you mean by being back in the family.”

If Dick had been well-rested, or the Dick Grayson of before, he wouldn’t even have blinked at the thinly veiled threat in his brother’s voice, but he was so frail today. His head was killing him. His worry for Damian only pushed him further down into the abyss of his own demise.

It was the first time Dick was allowed to tell his story. Maybe he should do it:

“I… I am sorry if this doesn’t make much sense… sometimes I zone out and my head is a mess after I come back… just…”

Dick stared at the opposing wall, very deliberately not looking at Jason. His body felt like _his_ again, there was a tingling sensation in his toes and a deep exhaustion settled in his bones. He felt human again.

Maybe this was his rock bottom.

Sitting on the floor of his childhood bedroom, eaten alive by concern, thrown off his game because of his fucking head, comforted by the brother he hadn’t seen for a year. The brother who has apparently been thrown out of the family.

Dick was just so tired.

“I… Bruce showed me the Cave, when I got released from the hospital. I was still so weak, so scared. And this man I didn’t know… he told me all these secrets, and there was something vindictive in his eyes and… and I ran, Jason. Bruce trusted me with his secret, and I ran away. Because he didn’t want Ric… he wanted his son back and I couldn’t give him that.”

“Ric?”

“I… I didn’t want to be Dick Grayson anymore. I needed a new name. On some days, it still feels as if I am more Ric than Dick…”

His cheeks were wet from his tears, but it felt cleansing.

It felt as if he was finally allowed to grieve that person he had been.

If one of his brothers could understand, it would be Jason. Jason who hadn’t known any of this because Bruce had been an ass in that situation as well.

(and Dick would do his best to find out what exactly happened between the two of them – as soon as he trusted himself with standing back up again)

“I was so lonely, Jay.”

“Hn.”

“So lonely. And scared. I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared in my entire life, as I have been on the day Bruce showed me the Cave. I fled to the Blüd… walked out of the apartment I had to my name and got myself a job as a cab driver. I lived in that car. I drove people around and at night, and afterwards I got drunk because I couldn’t pay for the meds, but I could buy beer and whiskey… I slept in that car. It was all I had.”

Jason’s gaze was heavy, but now that he had started, Dick couldn’t stop. He had never spoken these words aloud outside of a fight. Had never shared his side of the story on purpose.

He had never allowed himself to:

“No one came for me. Or Babs did, I think, but neither of us chose the right words. I…”

Suddenly Dick turned towards Jason. The wall was a boring staring companion and he needed Jason to understand what he was saying:

“I was so lonely. I… I went to bed scared and I woke up scared and there was no one there to help me out. I was just running on fear. Bruce… B… he told the entire superhero community that they should keep away. I… have nothing left, Jay… I…no friends, no family… no one… I don’t know who I am anymore… and on some days I don’t know how to keep going either…”

Dick hadn’t known how true these words were until they fell from his lips, almost drowned out by the sobs wracking his body. This was his cleanse, his absolution.

He needed to find Damian and maybe then everything would be alright again. Maybe Damian would be enough to tether Dick to earth, and his mind to the realm of the living.

“Holy shit… Dickiebird… come here…”

Warm arms engulfed him, pressing him close against the giant chest of his little brother.

A hug.

Dick had almost forgotten what they felt like. He had almost forgotten how much he craved the warmth and the closeness and the touch… only he hadn’t. His desperate need for human connection was something that kept him up at night.

“Okay… fuck… Dick, I… I am the last person to tell you this. I am a mess on two-legs myself… but, shit, that doesn’t sound good…”

Jason’s voice was a soft backdrop to his shaking body, a silent whisper in the roaring storm of blood being pumped through his veins. Dick was alive. He was alive.

And this close to another human living almost felt okay.

He hadn’t allowed himself to cry like this in ages – he couldn’t remember when it had last happened. He hadn’t allowed himself to break like this since… since he realized that his hopeful return would be anything but.

Dick Grayson was the broken husk of a man.

Maybe that was why everybody focused on Talon instead. They realized that Dick was beyond saving, and found a version of Dick Grayson worth of it.

No.

This was his messed-up head talking. This was a part of himself that had no place in his life, rearing its ugly head.

The closeness to his brother made him almost believe it.

“Dick… have you told anyone what you just told me?”

There was nobody there to listen. Nobody who stayed long enough for Dick to finish speaking. Not even Damian, who Dick loved dearly, stayed long enough to let Dick explain. Not even Cass, who Dick could feel watching, never asked why.

Not now, always later:

“Bruce threw you out of the family? Why?”

Adapt. Deflect. Overcome.

“Dick…”

“No. We talked about me for long enough. I… I need something else to focus on. Please.”

With each deep breath he took, some of his composure returned. One by one Dick felt like himself again. He was still pressed close against Jason’s chest, but he could feel himself growing antsy, could feel the nervous energy that accompanied him everywhere return.

Jason only sighed, his little brother probably just as confused on how they ended up in this situation.

The two of them had never been the cuddly type, especially not with each other. Robin Jason had too much to prove, and Dick in his early days as Nightwing had been too angry. And then Jason had died - and when he came back hugs were kind of out of the question.

This might be one of the first hugs they had shared in a long, long time.

It was getting really awkward.

Dick pushed himself away from Jason, his head only pulsing with a sharp remnant of pain once, before he settled next to his brother again.

Dick’s gaze felt sharp again, focused, and he hadn’t even realized how much he missed that while he had been caught up in the hazy confusion of sleep deprivation and pain.

“Bruce… I shot the Penguin on LIVE television. It was a blank. It was just supposed to look like I killed him… but Batman never fucking stopped to do his research. He was always on my ass while I wore the scaly pants about _the importance of information in investigation, Robin. The three Is, Robin_.”

Jason’s mocking Batman voice sent shivers down his spine.

He wasn’t sure if he had gotten the same lesson, but he knew with absolute certainty that whatever Jason recounted was true. And with each word, the anger returned to Jason.

His worry for Dick had kept it at bay, but now that Dick seemed to be alright again – and Dick knew that was a lie, but, hey – the normal set of Jason Todd’s emotions could return: The anger, the wrath, the self-righteousness.

Well, everyone in this family was prone to falling victim to these emotions.

Maybe that came by the virtue of beating up criminals while dressed in Kevlar. You had to develop a God-complex after a while. A God-complex or fucking depression.

“He pursued me to a rooftop, and I hoped that he would listen to reason… but he only screamed. And yelled. And… I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but my temper isn’t always the most in check… I screamed back. Some very ugly things got thrown around-“

For a moment Jason’s breath hitched, and Dick had the irrational fear that Jason would cry as well. Dick wasn’t strong enough to be anyone’s rock right now. He might be better… but he still wasn’t Dick Grayson. At least not yet.

“Well, and then Bruce fucking ripped the Bat of my chest and told me that I was no longer his son. I left town as quickly as I could… And now I returned, because some fucked up version of myself thought it would be cool to call me names.”

There it was. Dick glanced at Jason’s face, and the righteous fury was palpable on his pale cheeks.

Jason really needed to leave the house without his helmet on more often.

“And now?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? It hadn’t stopped reverberating in his head since he got the message about Damian’s kidnapping. It hadn’t even really stopped when the world did for a couple of minutes.

What came next?

“I don’t know. I don’t know what comes next. I want to find Damian. And I want to make sure that he is alright. But other than that? I have no idea how to achieve that.”

Silence fell between them, Dick’s breathing fast and agitated in comparison to Jason’s. Ah, so Jason had gone for the calm anger – the kind of anger Bruce was excellent at, Dick had perfected, Tim inherited, and Jason had never quite been able to control.

“I have a few questions. And I think Bruce will give me an answer, if I ask nicely enough.”

“What kind of questions?”

“Like… what the fuck is going on? Why is there a Talon that looks like you? Why did I get thrown out of Gotham? Why did even the Golden Child get cast away? These kinds of questions. I have the feeling none of you suckers pushed Bruce hard enough yet.”

 _Yes_ , some part of Dick wanted to say. _Yes, yes, yes! Tell Bruce what you think! Scream it into his face! Ask him why he left me alone!_

But the larger part of him could also see the big picture. Could see that something like that would get them nowhere:

“Jay… no… not now. Let us find Damian first and you can ask Bruce anything you want. Just… not now, yeah?”

“Hah! _Not now, always later_. Well, I am sick of that. I am sick of not getting answers. And fuck… Dick, you are a mess and a danger to yourself, but you won’t say anything because it could interfere with the mission… If you won’t say something… Well, guess what, Dickface? I have no such qualms.”

“Jason!”

They were standing now, Jason in an effort to leave, Dick in an attempt to hold him back. For a moment the room swayed, but then the world settled, and Dick was ready:

“Jason Todd, you will not do that!”

“And how do you think you could stop me? Look at you… when was the last time you ate a full meal? The last time you slept? The last time you did anything besides work and worry and wallow in self-pity?”

“This is not important right now! DAMIAN IS!”

Dick hadn’t planned on getting loud. No, he had wanted to discuss this like a pair of civilized people. But… he didn’t know how to deal with Jason’s worry. No one had been this concerned for him since he got shot.

No, they had been concerned for Dick Grayson. But once he had shown this different side of him, this hurt and struggling man – _lost, so lost_ – they packed up their interest and moved on.

But Dick was no longer mad. He was done with it. They could move on now. They could focus on more important things than his slightly bruised ego.

Jason was staring at him, and Dick had the vague feeling that he didn’t like what he was seeing.

There was something steely in his brother’s gaze when he opened the door leading to the hallway, ignoring Dick’s attempts to stop him:

“Okay. I won’t tell Bruce just how shitty you are doing. But I will ask my questions. And I will get my answers. And I will make sure that before this mess is over… I might no longer be a part of this family, but I will make sure that you don’t fucking off yourself.”

“Jay…”

“Don’t ‘Jay’ me… go to fucking bed. If we want to find Damian, you better hope that you slept before I see you next time.”

With that Jason was gone, leaving only Dick behind.

He wasn’t suicidal, was he?

He was just… he was just a bit broken and lonely and sad. But nothing that bad, right? Nothing as horrible as what Jason had just said, _right_?

He was better than this. He was Nightwing. He was a symbol of hope.

And Jason was right… his own life hadn’t counted for much in quite some time.

Well, fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your Feedback really MEANS A LOT!!! <3<3<3


	15. Absolution - Bruce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason talks to Bruce. Some things are being said. Others are being thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!!!  
> And welcome back for a bit of a shorter chapter!   
> YOUR FEEDBACK LAST WEEK MADE ME SO HAPPY!! HOLY SHIT!! I LOVE ALL OF YOU!!! <3
> 
> No Special Warnings... expect for Bruce, who is his own warning!

Bruce knew he was supposed to be sleeping, but it wasn’t his fault his phone had a remote access to the Batcomputer and its files.

It wasn’t his fault that he hacked the security cameras leading away from the Manor and into the city while he was hidden under the covers of his bed. The situation was simply too dire. What else was he supposed to do? Sleep. Pah!

It wouldn’t fool Alfred, but it didn’t have to. Just getting him to bed had been a win in the butler’s book.

Bruce couldn’t just go to sleep.

He had work to do. There was always work to do.

The integration of Talon into their daily lives had worked smoother than Bruce had anticipated, the Talon following each rule Bruce had informed him of to the letter.

But his own research had come to a halt – because there was nothing to find.

Bruce has done his best in keeping as much of this case as possible hidden from his kids, but looking at all the information he had managed to comply, there wasn’t much to hide at all.

Talon was the only one who could offer information firsthand, and the assassin was quick to follow commands but slow to answer questions. Bruce’s own memories were only a rough guide, his universe travel conducted with the help of magic after all…

He had come to a screeching stop, bidding his time, until some solution or the other offered itself up.

That was until a few hours ago, when the alarm for the Cave had been activated.

Jason had returned home, and he had brought trouble with him.

Red Mask. Bruce remembered the man from his trip, and he remembered his intelligence – and his violent nature. Maybe if there had been time, Bruce would have been able to decipher all the different aspects of anger hidden in the Red Mask or find out just why Jason had lost control – and why he had still chosen to return home. To Bruce.

But instead the night had only gotten worse. So much worse.

Damian had been kidnapped. Cass had left in anger. Dick had looked ready to fall.

And now all Bruce could do was hide in his room and try to save Damian before everything fell apart completely.

Only that there wasn’t all that much he could do when Jason aggressively pushed the door to the master bedroom open, anger and fury in his step.

Bruce deserved it. He just didn’t know why exactly now:

“Jason?”

“You absolute asshole.”

“Jason? What’s going on?”

His son was seething, and for a moment Bruce felt intimidated. He was laying in his bed, only dressed in soft cotton pajamas, covers clutched in his hand, completely vulnerable in the face of a man who Bruce had once upon a time called a criminal. Who might still be one.

But then his heart caught up with his brain. This was Jason. This was his son. And no matter what happened between them – no matter what words Bruce had spit and couldn’t take back – that would always stay true.

“Good question, isn’t it? But I can do you one better: What the fuck is _not_ going on? You- you know, I can deal with you throwing me out. That was only a question of time, honestly. Still confused why you didn’t do so while I was still a kid and an asshole instead of just an asshole, but I guess the puppy dog eyes count for something…”

“Jason? I-“, Bruce wanted to interrupt, his heart already breaking, his soul already being crushed. But Jason wouldn’t let him:

“No, it’s my time to talk, old man.”

Bruce watched as Jason pulled a deep breath inside his lungs before he continued, pure rage bathing every word he spit in anger:

“But Dick? Honestly, Bruce, you threw the fucking Golden Child to the wolves and still expect the world to be just fine. And what’s going on now? Why did my evil clone show up? Why is there a fucking Talon living in this house? I was gone for a year – and I can’t recognize the mess you’ve made out of this family. I am almost glad to no longer be a part of it.”

So much was going on, so many words were being thrown around. But Bruce couldn’t talk like this, he needed a moment to collect himself, a moment to center himself in the face of this angry young man and the words he used like weapons – ready to cut:

“Please calm down, Jason. Let me explain.”

The tension in Jason’s jaw made the veins on his neck pop. So much anger. So much hatred.

And it was all Bruce’s fault.

“Talk. And you better give me answers.”

And Bruce did. In a few short sentences Bruce explained the Talon incident to Jason, told him of Earth 49311, and tried to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that told him this would not be enough.

Jason seemed to think the same:

“And what does any of that have to do with you abandoning your fucking kids? Like, shit, Bruce, when was the last time you talked to Dick? Have you seen how angry the ninja was when she left? Steph has basically told me that her motto is ‘Fuck, Bruce’ and the brat’s room didn’t yell healthy and adjusted either.”

“I…”

“I get why you don’t care for me. I knew that when I first beheaded people you were too cowardly to kill… but, shit, Bruce, I thought your love wasn’t that conditional. I’ve been back a couple of hours at most and I can already see how broken everyone is. Why can’t you?”

It hurt.

It hurt as if a burning poker was being pushed through his heart, twisting and searing and tearing.

Maybe it also hurt because it was true.

“I love you, Jay-lad. I love every single one of you. Sometimes so much it hurts.”

Jason flinched back, and the pain in Bruce’s chest intensified. When was the last time he told his kids that? When was the last time he hadn’t let Other Bruce fuck him over?

“You threw me away.”

Bruce could see the tension in Jason’s shoulder, could see his need for conflict… and yet his voice was unbelievably small. Soft. Vulnerable.

All of them were rubbed raw, chewed open by the horrors the universe liked to push in their direction, and just this once it offered them something else besides yelling: It offered them the possibility of painful truth.

Bruce took it.

“I did it in a misguided attempt to protect you. I… I destroy the people I love, Jay… I thought maybe pushing you away would be the better option.”

“That is not an apology. Hell, that is not even a real explanation.”

A bit of fire returned to Jason’s voice, and Bruce couldn’t help but stare at this young man that stood in his doorway, anger protecting him like an armor.

Jason had grown up without Bruce. Because Bruce wasn’t fast enough. Because when it came to Jason Peter Todd, Bruce only seemed to be able to make mistakes.

His heart bled with his love for Jason – for all his kids – but he also knew… the mission came first. Even if he didn’t want it to. Even if all he wanted to do was cuddle with his kids and read them bedtime stories, they all knew that the mission would come first. That it _had_ to come first.

But that didn’t mean Bruce wouldn’t do everything humanly possible to protect his children:

“I did it to protect all of you. From myself. And the multiverse. It didn’t work – obviously. But I did it to protect you.”

“Have you ever asked anyone of us if we wanted to be protected? Did you ask me, if I wanted to be thrown out because it would make me ‘safer’? Or did you ask Dick, before you isolated him with nothing to his name but a car and some painkillers?”

Jason’s words were acid, intended to hurt. And they did. They burned through every protective layer Bruce had built up around his heart.

“I know I made a mistake, but-“

“ _One_? One mistake, Bruce? You made dozens. Maybe even hundreds. And you know why I can tell you that? Why I can scream it in your face? Because you pushed me away. I no longer belong to you. You made sure of that!”

The quiver in Jason’s voice betrayed him. And some part of Bruce was relieved. Because he had never forgiven himself for what happened with Jason. The fear had swallowed him in parts. What if Jason never came home? What if he had just lost his son again? Only this time due to his own stupidity and misplaced guilt instead of the Joker.

But with how Jason was looking at him right now?

It felt as if a younger Jason shared the room with them, a missing tooth and mischief present in his grin:

‘ _Can I call you Dad, B? Or would that be too forward? I mean, we are Batman and Robin. Can we… can we be father and son as well?’_

Bruce still remembered that day. He would never forget it. Couldn’t forget it. It was one of his happiest memories after all.

Jason Todd, aged fourteen, telling Bruce that he wanted him to be his dad. Jason had only lived at the Manor for a bit longer than half a year, and while the kid was still working through some stuff, Bruce had fallen in love with the idea of being this child’s father.

Dick had never wanted to replace his family, at least he didn’t while he was still young, and Bruce had noticed too late that Dick had become a son as well… but Jason? Jason wanted a dad. And Bruce offered himself.

The adoption had been a quick process following the damned question.

And even now, the small quiver in Jason’s voice as he told Bruce that he no longer cared told him it was a lie. His boy was hurting – and he was failing to cover it up.

“I love you. And I fucked up. But will you let me try?”

“I…”

‘ _You are a manipulative ass… but, hell yeah, Batman, the way you tricked the Riddler was genius!_ ’

Robin’s mask judged from the corner of his room, where Bruce tried to ignore the small form of a young boy dancing and laughing and reminding him of past mistakes.

He was used to this.

He was used to Jason haunting his every thought.

“I made a mistake, Jason. An honest mistake. And if you’ll let me… I would like to try and make it up to you.”

“How?”

Jason’s voice was hoarse, and the hope in his eyes sent a burning shiver of shame down Bruce’s spine. He had no idea how to make it all good again. He had burned so many bridges, he had done so many things… but he would always offer himself up to his children:

“I don’t know. But I will find a way. After we save Damian, I will do everything in my power to make it right with you.”

“Hah, you can try. But maybe you should take care of the other birds as well. I ain’t the only one you owe an apology to…”

“Dick?”

“For one. Cassie. Steph. Damian. Timmers. Duke. You fucked all of us over.”

“I did it to protect you… I did it because I love you…”

_‘You have no right to hide something like this from be, Bruce! None! This is about my mom, my family!’_

“I only did it because I love you…”

His voice was barely more than a whisper, and not for the first time Bruce wondered if he would ever get a chance to build this family back up again. Or if some relationships had just been lost. He wanted them back. He needed them back.

He loved his family more than life – and yet he had sold himself to the mission.

“Yeah, well, you can stick that love up your ass, because it isn’t worth it. Maybe next time try talking instead. As soon as this is over, I am out. Only this time for real. Only this time forever.”

“Jason…”

“No. No… I won’t allow you to… to just say sorry once – and you didn’t even do that! – and the world is suddenly alright again. You threw me out of the family! And maybe for you that was just something you did… but for me that meant having to leave. It meant no back-up. No family. No home. You took Gotham away from me Bruce, and that city is just as much mine as it is yours.”

Jason was correct, of course. Bruce had hurt him, had pushed him away, had taken all the support system the family and the Cave provided… and Jason would never truly understand why Bruce had done it.

Maybe that was because their relationship hadn’t been the best even before all of this happened or it was because Bruce would never let himself lose control in the same way he had when he had talked to Tim weeks earlier.

He just knew he wanted that boy back, this child that had called him dad without a moment of hesitation, that had loved being Robin so, so much – maybe even more than Dick did – that Jason, who had smiled up at Bruce, ice cream everywhere on his face, eyes ablaze with sugar and had said:

‘ _We will always be together, Bruce, even if we fight. Because Batman and Robin belong together… and Jason and Bruce are the best Gotham has to offer_ ’

Jason has always been intelligent and clever and in love with learning and knowledge and astute observations. He just lost sight of that whenever it came to Bruce.

“I love you, Jason. Kicking you out, it was a mistake in hindsight. And even back then… I knew I had done something wrong. But… I did it to protect you. And I will never be sorry for trying to protect any of you.”

And he wouldn’t.

Even if in the end Bruce never managed to protect them for long. Even if some of it seemed so silly now. He had done his very best to keep Other Bruce and the fruits of his terrible, terrible work as far away from his children as possible and yet they had come to haunt him with a ferocity no one could have expected.

“A mistake… is that all I can be reduced to as well? You know what? Forget it, Bruce. I should stop wasting my breath on you. Thank you for telling me that we have a fucking Universe Travel plot on our hands, I guess. And fuck you, for everything else.”

The door hit its frame with a bang, the sound reverberating in Bruce’s bedroom.

Jason had left.

And now only Bruce was here, half-sitting in his bed, phone laying half-forgotten on the side, alone. Jason was gone. And Bruce had no idea if they would ever talk civilly again.

He only had himself to blame.

The worst bit was probably the fact that Bruce would do it all over again. Or something like it.

Now that he knew that it was useless, maybe he would act differently, but should another situation arise in which the question was protecting his children or being a good father, Bruce would choose his children. He would always choose them.

Just as he would always protect them. Even if they couldn’t see it. Even if said protection meant they would leave.

As soon as this was over Bruce would do his best to help his children. He would. He… he wanted them back in his life. It was just… he couldn’t give Other Bruce this chance.

Other Bruce… was more than just an evil version of Bruce. They had met quite a few of those over the years, but Other Bruce was different.

His choices made too much sense. It had frightened Bruce beyond recognition, to realize that this version of himself had been more than logical when it hurt each of the kids.

Bruce himself had played with a contingency plan that involved sending Dick to the Court. The boy had engaged in it on his own, as well.

Bruce had noticed how Jason would fit Black Mask’s profile, and it had proven correct when the Red Hood went on his rampage, especially targeting the crime boss.

Bruce had never planned on sending Tim to handle the Joker, the clown of his universe so much more frightening and harmful than he had been on Earth 49311, but looking at it from an outside perspective Bruce could understand it: Tim’s analytical brain would work wonders taking apart the hysteria that came from Joker venom.

Damian… Bruce would never use Damian to infiltrate the League, but he could see why it would work.

He could see how Other Bruce had first established undying love in these children, and then sent them to get killed and maimed and tortured.

He was still unbelievable glad that neither Steph nor Cass had been pulled into the schemes of the man as well. At least two of his kids escaped the clutches of his evil self. Two was not enough, but it was at least a beginning.

All Bruce wanted was for his children to never face that world. To never find out how much sense it made to Bruce what Other Bruce had done.

He could understand every step the other man had taken, and Bruce hated himself for it. He was disgusted with himself, and nothing he did could stop that.

Other Bruce had been loved by his children – maybe Bruce had to do the opposite. Maybe Bruce had to be hated for them to be safe.

That was the idea, wasn’t it?

And now even that had proven wrong.

His children got hurt. And they were still in danger.

Damian got kidnapped by an evil version of himself, a version Bruce had told them nothing about out of fear. Out of cowardice. Now his youngest had paid for it – and fear moved into Bruce’s heart once more.

Jason was mad at him – only returning from the distance that promised safety because the Red Mask had decided to haunt him. Only because Bruce’s mistake decided to haunt the Red Hood.

Cass was disappointed. He had promised her a family. Loyalty. Love. And all he had given her was a crumpling pile of shit, falling apart, none of them whole, none of them without their edges.

Dick was… Dick was a mess of broken parts. Of edges that cut into each other, and all of it was Bruce’s fault. He might not have pulled the trigger, but sometimes it felt as if he might as well have.

Steph was angry. At him. At the world. At Cass. But probably mostly at him. But she was also scared – and Bruce knew that it had been his actions that installed said fear in her.

Duke was far away, choosing the distance over this thing they called a family. Bruce couldn’t really say that he blamed him.

And Tim…

Bruce let himself fall back into bed.

Tim had walked out of the Cave a month ago, and only returned for Sunday dinner and nothing else. Coming to think of it… Tim wasn’t here… he hadn’t been in the Cave and he hadn’t answered Bruce’s SOS signal.

Where the fuck was Tim?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love hearing your THOUGHTS! <3


	16. On My Own - Tim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim left the Cave a month ago, and he hasn't looked back ever since. Not even when a distress signal was activated. No, Tim had more important things to do, he had smugglers to catch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO!! And welcome back!!  
> Thanks to ALL OF YOU for your wonderful comments and thoughts and theories and ideas!!  
> This time we have some Tim Time!!! 
> 
> Warnings: Past Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, Depressed Tim Drake - but he is getting better???

The gravel dug into his skin through the protective layer of his suit. It wouldn’t scratch him, of course, but Tim knew that there would be a weird pattern imprinted on his skin as soon as he peeled it back.

The binoculars laid heavy in his hands, and it took more focus than it should have to concentrate on the job.

But Tim hadn’t sacrificed sleep for the last two days just to fail in the last stage of this operation. These drug dealers were going down and if it was the last thing Red Robin did. His communicator vibrated – had done so for the last few thirty-six hours actually – but Tim stayed strong in his decision to keep the comm on silent.

This bust was going to be the culmination of three months of work, countless sleepless nights, and the last two days spent in constant preparation.

Of course, Tim had glanced at the SOS message when it had come in a few days ago, but he had only read the words ‘Damian is…’ and knew that he wouldn’t be needed. They could do that one without him. The Brat would only complain if Tim was the one to save him anyways.

Still, Tim wondered how long it would take his fucking family to finally notice that he was gone.

That he had left the Cave and not returned.

Some part of him still hoped that they just didn’t want to breech the subject with him. Family dinners were awkward enough without having to try to ask someone, if they quit the family business. But… not even a single one of his siblings – Tim didn’t really count on Bruce noticing to be honest – had said anything. 

The only sign that Tim didn’t imagine storming out and deciding that he was better than this was the fact that Alfred tended to send concerned glances in his direction. He had seen the butler three times since that fateful morning, and each time the frown in the corner of Alfred’s mouth had grown deeper.

Funnily enough he had also seen his own family only said three times.

He still talked to Steph, of course, the woman still one of his closest friends outside of the mask, but even with their connection it had grown somewhat icy and silent over the last weeks. And Tim didn’t even want to begin to decipher the weird message she had sent him earlier that day: “Hi – don’t turn into a clown. Or meet one. Thanks.”

He disconnected himself from the family network – even if Babs was constantly trying to reconnect them – and only let the emergency channels remain. Tim might be mad as hell (and hurt, but that was a secret) but he wasn’t stupid.

He wouldn’t risk his own life and those of others because of his pride.

And, no, not answering the SOS call about Damian did not contradict that. Damian had people who cared. People who would create hell on earth in order to help him. Fuck, Bruce and Dick were probably losing their shit right now.

Damian didn’t need Tim to save him.

But Tim might need Bruce and Dick.

That was a silly thought. One Tim usually didn’t allow himself anymore, but on evenings like this one, he was too tired to stop his brain from thinking. But that sadly didn’t stop it from being true. Tim felt like falling apart. He felt like that since he had been sixteen and the year of hell started – maybe even before that, the tendrils of depression long ago invading his thoughts. His mother had taken anti-depressants, Tim had found out from the coroner’s report – it ran in the family.

And for a time, Bruce and Dick had been there to catch him. The dad and big brother he always wanted.

The two of them were the reason Tim didn’t break when his parents died, one after the other, or when Jason came back and slit his fucking throat.

Dick had taught him how to drive stick, and how to drink responsibly, and what a good hug felt like. Bruce had shown him what care was, and parental love. Bruce had attended school events and science fairs and photography galleries when no one else had ever done that for Tim. He had been there. _Always_.

And then the Brat appeared.

If Tim wanted to be honest – and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be just that right now – he knew that their relationship changed a lot since Damian had first entered the Manor three years prior.

Damian hadn’t tried to kill him for years now, for one. And Tim had somehow come to accept his identity of Red Robin and started to love it. They hadn’t yelled at each other in hate for some time now, and Tim had even made Damian laugh half a year ago when Alfred the Cat decided to sleep on top of Tim’s head… but still, Tim would probably never be Damian’s greatest fan. And vice versa.

Especially since Damian had taken what Tim loved most from him – and for once Tim wasn’t talking about the mantel of Robin:

Damian had taken his family. His dad and his big bro.

Once upon a time Tim had a father in Bruce, and a support system in Dick. He even had a sister in Cass and a girlfriend in Steph (funny how that one worked out).

And now he had no one.

He was just Red Robin now. A true solo vigilante, even if his family hadn’t realized it yet.

That fucking Talon was probably more important. Or Damian. Or Dick. Or Cass. Or, fuck it, Duke, who had run off to Hong Kong.

Tim should have done the same. Maybe he would. Run away again, see the world a bit more, get some distance.

(find something like the family he had in Young Justice – the friends he had and loved)

It might help.

But right now, it wasn’t the Fernweh that should hold Tim’s focus but the operation right in front of him. He had tracked the suppliers from the corners of Blüdhaven to the warehouses of Gotham, and now he could watch as the drug dealers he had chosen as his vehicles of information waited nervously for the big fish to appear.

Red Robin hated summer patrols because Gotham was never dry, and the summer just made it hot as well as wet. The humidity wouldn’t allow for his cape to flare out in the way Tim wanted it to, and the skin beneath his cowl was itching.

How the drug dealers could survive this heat in their heavy coats and dark beanies, Tim had no idea. But kudos to them, they were seriously heat resistant.

Tim loved waiting. Usually. Today it only dragged on and on and on…

He had grown up waiting on rooftops and back alleys, hiding behind chimneys and dumpsters, as he watched Batman and Robin save the city, camera ready in his hands. Gotham had taught him more than his parents ever did, and when the night was just right, Tim liked to think of Gotham as an entity that had come to love him.

But tonight, the city didn’t sing, the waiting didn’t make his bones hum… no, he was only tired and Gotham wanted to lull him to sleep. But he wouldn’t let her.

He would continue to stare through these binoculars, ignoring how heavy his eyelids were and how coiled the muscles in his back felt.

The street below him was still silent, still empty, except for the two dealers that loitered in front of the warehouse Tim was sure the suppliers operated out of. You could only hear the low sizzling sound of the old streetlights and the heavy sound of clouds balling up and rumbling against each other.

That, and the buzz of the comm unit.

His eyes began to drop, his head suddenly so much heavier, when a van pulled up on the curb next to the dealers. Instantly Tim snapped back into awareness, his focus laser sharp as he watched the two men open the back door of the van and vanish into the darkness.

His hands had already closed around a tracker, and the van only started to pull away from the curb, when Tim threw the little batarang and watched as it embedded itself in the back of the car. He would follow them from a safe distance, and when they were distracted, he would act.

But before he could do that, he set an electronic beacon on the warehouse for Babs. He might not consider himself a part of the Bat-Clan anymore, but he wouldn’t be an ass if he didn’t have to be. That, and he couldn’t do everything on his own.

It was either check the warehouse for clues and evidence or track the van, and right now Tim knew what he would rather be doing.

Especially since he had caught a glimpse of the driver as he maneuvered the car down the street: It looked suspiciously like a Damian Wayne lookalike was sitting behind the wheel.

Tim had to investigate this.

He followed the car from the harbor straight towards the airport, staying out of sight for as long as he could. But the closer they came to the private sector of the Gotham International Airport, the harder it was for Tim to hide himself and his Red Cycle.

It was the middle of the night, after all, and even here the traffic tended to lull when the sun was gone.

The van passed through the security gates. As Tim drove past them, he watched as the van disappeared behind the corner of the next hangar. He let the Cycle roll an additional few hundred feet before he found a bush big enough to hide his bike. From now on the vehicle would only be in the way.

It was time for Red Robin, his grapple gun, and his ability to climb over fences.

The airport was only running the barest level of security, the private sector truly deserted this time of the night. Tim sneaked past the administration building. Only the emergency lights turned on, no watchmen in sight.

The further he got, the more obvious it appeared that he wouldn’t need the tracker to find his smuggling friends and the Damian Wayne double: There was only one hangar, brightly illuminated, and only one plane ready to leave Gotham and her airport behind.

Tim hid behind one of the airport security cars – empty for the night – and watched as multiple men and women carried boxes into a plane that looked built for comfort and not for smuggling. But maybe this was their schtick? Hiding in plain sight with a fancy machine while nobody noticed that your passengers were packages of cocaine.

He couldn’t help himself, trying to find the weird Damian double again.

It had only been a glance, back at the meeting place in front of the warehouse, but Tim was sure that he had seen Damian behind the wheel. Or someone who looked remarkable like the Brat. This deserved investigation.

For ages nothing seemed to change: People carried boxes and weird Damian was nowhere to be seen. Tim was contemplating when the best time to hit would be. He would have to stop the plane from leaving, of course, but should he stop them now and risk their leaders getting away? Or should he wait for the last possible moment before he disrupted their plans in the hopes of finding the dude who was behind it all?

Right about now back-up would be neat, Tim thought. But he had made a choice and he would stick with it.

No one could say that Tim wasn’t stubborn. And he was. It was something he was quite proud of, actually.

Tim would continue, he would live with his choice, and he would make the best out of it.

This skill had made him Robin, this skill had made it possible for him to bring Bruce back. Hell, this skill had ensured that Tim didn’t just throw himself off the next cliff if one of his bad days hit again.

Tim was too stubborn to die and too stubborn to give up – it was as simple as that.

Maybe that wasn’t the most reassuring thing to build his mental health up on, but, fuck it, it was all he had.

Tim’s vantage point wasn’t the best and it slowly began to bother him, when he noticed that there was a blind spot behind the left wing of the plane he could not get any visuals on, no matter which side of the car Tim used to watch the operation over.

He would have to get closer.

An unnecessary risk, Bruce would say. But guess what? Bruce was no longer here. Red Robin didn’t fly under Batman anymore. Red Robin was his own boss now, and he wanted to see what happened underneath or by the left wing.

It could be a vital part of the drug smuggling business, especially since Tim had not yet spotted any of the guys that led this shit show according to his files. He was missing something, and this blind spot might just be the answer.

He could heart the chiding tone of Batman in the back of his head, when he sneaked out from behind his observation point, timing it between the two rounds of people carrying shit onto the plane. He was fast when he ran across the open expanse that separated him from a tower of crates on the other side of the hangar.

If he was lucky enough no one would spot him. If he was even luckier, he should have a perfect view of the side that was previously hidden from him.

It was definitely worth a shot.

10…

9…

8…

He was counting down the seconds until the next wave of henchmen would pour out of the hanger, his feet swift, his pulse racing.

7…

6…

5…

The crates seemed impossibly far away; Tim only having reached the halfway point of the plane. He still had so much space to cross. So much distance to overcome.

4…

3…

2…

The first people returned to the blinding light of the flood lights illuminating the hangar. No more time. Tim used the force of his sprint to catapult himself forward, his body tucking neatly into a flying roll. His shoulder connected with the concrete, his body rolled and came to a halt.

He was afraid to open his eyes.

What if he had just landed a few feet away from the crew? What if they saw him? Tucked into a ball? Miserable, lonely Red Robin?

But, no, he would fight if that was the case. He would fight and win and bring down the smuggling ring. And Gotham would sing his praises. Bruce would be proud of him. And sorry that he hadn’t realized how good and great and lovable Tim was beforehand.

And Tim would say _No_. He would push Bruce away, and relish the shock on his dad’s face, when Tim didn’t just come back. When Tim stood up for himself and demanded more than that.

But for that to happen, Tim would have to open his eyes.

There was no one staring at him. There was no flashlight directed at him, and no laughter reverberating across the airport. Because Tim had managed to land behind the crates. He was safe.

Now his racing heart only needed to believe that as well.

It took a couple of deep breaths for Tim to be calm enough again to continue with his plan. The sleepless nights and the fact that he didn’t have any back-up to rely on really got to him for a moment there. But that was okay. Every vigilante was allowed one minor freak-out during a bust.

You just had to ration them.

Tim was okay. And the adrenaline in his bloodstream would subside and everything would be alright.

If his hands were still slightly trembling when he glanced past the corner of the crates to take a look at the plane, nobody needed to know.

It was a jackpot.

 _Shah mah_.

In the blind spot from earlier, three of the leaders of the drug ring conversed, not a care in the world visible on their faces, as they readied themselves to ship enough coke to destroy thousands of lives onto a plane.

The weird Damian double wasn’t visible, but for a moment Tim forgot all about him.

Because this was freaking amazing.

Tim had hoped to maybe take one of the leaders down, but this was… this was more than he could have ever hoped for. Three of five identified leaders right there for him to take. The chance that one of them would talk had just risen by 321%.

Tim had this.

Which was why he spotted the slumped bundle at the foot of the gangway, of course.

For a moment Tim wasn’t sure what he was looking at. But then it clicked. It was Damian.

Damian was sitting on the floor next to a plane to East Asia, hands and feet tightly bound, mouth hidden behind a gag, dressed in filthy PJs. _They had the Nightwing symbol on them,_ Tim’s brain helpfully supplied. _They’d been a gift from Dick to Damian for the boy’s twelfth birthday. Damian had loudly declared them to be a stupid present only to wear them to bed that very same night._

What?

What was Damian doing here?

He was supposed to be save. The entire family was on a hunt for Damian, and yet none of them were here. Tim was the only one at the airport right now. He was the only one seeing Damian, the Demon Brat, in such a sorry state.

_Fuck._

This was supposed to be his drug bust. His first big case since going solo. And now… and now saving Damian would take priority. It no longer mattered if the leaders of the smuggling ring escaped – Tim would get to them latter – instead it was of the utmost importance that Tim managed to get Damian out of here.

Because it wasn’t Robin that was crying silent tears as three horrible men ignored him. No, it was Damian Wayne, a thirteen-year-old boy. And, shit, he looked terrified.

Tim took a deep breath, his hand reaching for his comm, ready to activate it and let Babs know just what Tim had found – even if that meant getting yelled at – when a shiver ran down his spine.

“Oh? What do we have here?”

The voice sounded familiar and foreign at the same time. Tim’s stomach was already churning by the time he managed to turn around. Only to be greeted by a sword to the neck.

It was Ra’s al Ghul standing in front of him. No. It was Damian Wayne – older, dressed in the robes of the man Tim had learned to fear and respect. Ra’s al Ghul had controlled over a year of Tim’s life and sometimes just thinking about him made Tim sick to his stomach, but somehow this figure in front of him was even worse.

Because Tim was a clever young man.

It didn’t take long for him to connect the dots, to bring it all together, and realize that this man in front of him… was the alternate version of the Damian he knew.

Bruce had given him quite a few puzzle pieces after all, showing Tim his cards in an attempt to make him run away. It hurt to think that Bruce had succeeded, but now was not the time to focus on the misgivings of his former mentor. Now it was time to focus on the threat in front of him.

“Damian. The Demon’s Head, I assume?”

“Oh, you are quite the clever boy, aren’t you Tim? I take that you still go by Tim in this world, please correct me if I am wrong.”

They were the same age. At least physically, Tim was pretty sure. Caught somewhere between eighteen and nineteen years old, the last remnants of puberty still clinging to their cheeks – but where Tim’s eyes hid depression and loneliness, Damian’s were rivers of green, rivers of insanity.

But even the sure sign of the Lazarus Pit couldn’t distract Tim from the most unsettling information Damian had just betrayed: The Demon’s Head had an American accent, and not the vaguely Arabic British one that Tim had come to associate with his Damian.

No, this Damian sounded posh and polite, but his accent was clearly from the East Coast.

Maybe it should have been the confirmation that Tim was Joker Junior in Demon’s Head’s universe and not the fact that Damian had a different tilt to his voice, that threw him off, but Tim couldn’t help himself and wonder just what had gone differently in that world.

“I… I’m still Tim.”

“Good to know. I take that we didn’t spend our childhoods together playing catch in the Manor gardens?”

“No…”

Tim shouldn’t converse with Damian, he should fight. His hands should already be in position for a counter blow, and his shoulders tense, ready to twist his neck away from the sword threatening his life. But all Tim could think about was the fact that him and Damian had been childhood friends somewhere in the multiverse. All he could see was Damian’s small body huddled together and in grave danger not even a hundred feet away, while the evil version of his little brother threatened to cut his head off.

How was he supposed to get out of this?

He wasn’t.

Instead of searching for a way to defend himself, Tim let his hand drop. His voice was leveled when he asked a question:

“How did you find me?”

“Oh, we might not have the same army of vigilantes that you have, but I will still recognize a Batman issued throwing weapon when I see one.”

Keeping the Demon’s Head’s gaze focused on him, Tim slowly let his hand creep towards his belt, towards the SOS signal hidden on it.

“You can press the SOS beacon.”

Tim froze, his hand only inches away from his saving grace. The Demon’s Head was smiling, and it was weird to see such an unguarded expression on a face so similar to Damian’s.

The Demon’s Head used the hand not holding the sword to gesture towards Tim’s belt, something like mirth in his voice when he spoke next:

“You wanted to contact Batman and the other’s, didn’t you? Do it. Send that signal. Press that button.”

Tim wasn’t sure what the best course of action would be, but he had the vague feeling that it wasn’t a request. Maybe he would just doom his family. Maybe this would cost them greatly and severely.

Or maybe this would be what Damian and he needed to be saved.

Hah, Tim had kind of hoped to no longer be stuck in that category. Shouldn’t he have grown beyond that by now? Shouldn’t he be the one to do the saving by now?

But, no, Tim could already tell how this was going to end.

He pressed the button.

“Good boy.”

The Demon’s Head’s voice was mocking. Tim wanted to throw up. He had just willingly given up. He was officially captured, and he hadn’t even tried to fight back. Laughable. So much to Tim’s dreams of becoming something more. Something strong without having to be someone’s damsel in distress.

“What happens now?”

Tim tried to not let the sword on his neck bother him, some part of him used to the feeling of cold steel this close to his arteries. And yet he couldn’t quite stifle the nervous energies that thrummed through his body.

He had no idea what would happen next. And Red Robin liked plans. Tim loved them.

As a child, next to his hidden box of photos, Tim always had a folder of contingency plans: Pieces of paper that detailed which steps Tim had to take to leave the house without Mrs. Mac noticing or how to get to the next bakery without complications.

That’s why he loved photography so much as a kid – it allowed him to watch his heroes and it followed a set couple of steps that you had to get just right in order to develop a perfect picture.

Bruce worked like that as well. Tim knew that this similarity between the two of them was the reason why he had ultimately succeeded in his goal. Why he had managed to become Robin. Why he had been able to save Bruce.

Now he would have to trust Bruce to save him. And Damian.

Maybe the double feature would ensure that Bruce actually did it. That Tim would get saved and survive this endeavor.

“I could kill you, but I don’t think that I’ll do that.”

Damian – and it was getting weirder and weirder to call him that in his head – had a contemplative look on his face. Tim just hoped that was a good sign.

He would have to fight if the Demon’s Head decided to kill him. Even if Tim wanted to save Damian, he would have to ensure his own survival first.

Still, he hadn’t counted on the question the man (boy?) directed towards him:

“You aren’t by any chance a kid of Bruce Wayne in this world, are you?”

“At least legally.” His mouth had been faster than his brain, and for a moment Tim was sure that this was it. That this was the mistake that would get him killed before he had a chance to react. Maybe the Demon’s Head was just as focused on blood ties as his own Damian was. Maybe claiming to be a Wayne was what would push this evil version of a violent child over the edge. 

But none of that happened. Damian – and Tim really needed to find a better name for him – only nodded, a slow smile spreading on his features:

“Some issues there? Nothing new, I assure you. But I can tell you at least this much: You will come with me – and you will help me destroy Bruce Wayne. You will help me burn Batman to the ground.”

Villains always had the same plan, the same schtick, the same promise of ‘Destroying the Batman!’… and yet it felt so much more threatening to hear Damian say these very same words.

Tim had to suppress the urge to visibly swallow. He wouldn’t satisfy the Demon’s Head’s need for validation. Tim knew how much Ra’s al Ghul had enjoyed seeing him frightened. How that fucking creep had enjoyed the fear and the panic and the extreme helplessness that had overcome Tim whenever it had been just the two of them. Just one lonely vigilante against a being that was older than Gotham.

Tim’s only saving grace had been that Ra’s al Ghul wanted to win him over, wanted to play a game.

And Tim was a freaking good chess player.

The Demon’s Head in front of him wouldn’t want to play – or wouldn’t do it in a way that would enable Tim to make his move next. No, Tim had been forced to play his cards long before he wanted to, and now it was Damian’s turn.

“Give me your belt”

“What?”

“Give me your belt. And your cowl. I am not transporting Robin and… R-Robin across the world. I am smuggling two rich kids for some buyers in Macao. Leave your boots here as well.”

Their eyes met. Tim didn’t want to do this. Giving up his gear came pretty close to losing. His hand shook when it closed on the hidden clasp holding his cowl and cape in place. But it was the satisfied look in Demon’s Head’s eyes that really turned his stomach. That made Tim want to die even more than usual.

But, no, Tim was better than this. Tim had grown beyond the suicidal tendencies of a teenager. He had grown stronger and older and more adaptable.

Yeah, his own shitty mental health hadn’t really gotten all that much better – but Tim had proven to himself that if nothing else he was at least too stubborn to die:

“This doesn’t mean that you’ve won.”

The Demon’s Head took the equipment from Tim’s hands, a smile still visible on his face, self-assuredness audible in his voice:

“We will see. Ah, I almost forgot about that…”

With a swift motion Damian ripped the Red Robin symbol from Tim’s chest, leaving only the echo of pain behind. Tim would never admit it, but just having someone else – someone who looked like his little brother no less – rip the symbol he had fought so hard to make his own from his chest was one of his greatest fears. One of his most vivid nightmares.

But Tim wouldn’t let his fear show, wouldn’t let the hitch in his breathing become a sob. No, he was better than this. He had grown beyond the need to cry. It was just the sleep deprivation that made him this emotional, he was sure of it.

“Your plan won’t succeed. Batman will hunt you down.”

It felt silly to threaten someone with his dad. It felt like a schoolyard insult even if Tim had never used it before. And most certainly not while he was in school. 

The Demon’s Head seemed to think the same:

“You might have to work on your trash talk. I mean, have you ever thought about the fact, that _maybe_ I want Batman to hunt me down?”

The sword was pulled back, and before Tim had any chance to react, his shoulder was roughly grabbed, and he was pulled forward with a force he hadn’t expected. Damian was surprisingly strong. Stronger than a boy of his height and – roughly – age had any right to be.

Tim stumbled, and Damian used his lack of balance to twist him around, securing his arms with a speed that frightened Tim.

Normally only super-humans or metas had an agility like that, a power like that… But then again, Tim had no idea – and no research to back it up – on how the Lazarus Pit affected teenage boys. All he knew was that sometimes Jason appeared a touch faster than a normal human, that sometimes Jason’s fists hit harder than they should.

Maybe… maybe this Damian was the same.

It didn’t take long for his arms to be caught in restraints so strong Tim had his doubts he would be able to escape them. There was nothing much for him to do besides staring angrily at the crates in front of his face and wonder if he had done the right thing.

Maybe he should have fought harder. Or he should have called backup ages ago. Or he shouldn’t have changed his position to see better.

All the _ifs_ and _whens_ and _maybes_ made his head spin, and his tongue lose:

“Aren’t your drug smuggling friends going to miss you?”

“Probably. Which is why we are going to meet them now.”

A gag was roughly pushed between his teeth, forcing his mouth open, the cloth scratching along his gum, almost making him gag for real. He hated gags. They hurt. They smelled. They made it so much harder to escape.

He tried to push his tongue against the fabric, which was slowly getting soggy, with the spit collecting in the bottom of his mouth, but it wouldn’t budge. Not that Tim had expected it to, honestly. Damian was too good for that.

He felt naked when Damian pushed him forward, out into the open from behind the crates. He was missing his cape and his cowl, and his special equipment (and his boots). He was missing the insignia of Red Robin. Right now, he was just Timothy Drake-Wayne dressed in a thick red tunic and tight black pants.

The three drug leaders immediately turned around when the two of them appeared, their gazes laser sharp as they took in the sight in front of them.

“Hey, Ra’s! What the fuck is that?”

Ra’s. They called him Ra’s even though he so clearly was not. Tim knew about the ritual, knew about the plan of Ra’s al Ghul to create an heir he could possess. The Damian currently pushing Tim forward was not that.

No, this was Damian Wayne with a heavy dose of Lazarus Pit flavoring.

“I found a little rat hiding and spying on us. Thought we could take him with us.”

“You paid us for the transport of one brat not two.”

The smugglers were looking at Damian expectantly, and Tim finally understood how the Demon’s Head fit into the picture of the drug ring Tim had been scaling for three months now. Because the Demon’s Head wasn’t a part of this operation – he had just paid them to transport him and his precious cargo.

Tim had no idea if that made it easier or harder for Bruce to find them.

“Well, then I shall pay for this one as well.”

The Demon’s Head behind him was probably still smiling politely, but Tim could feel the hold on his arms tighten. Damian was pissed. Tim only hoped that the inevitable explosion would benefit him.

Letting his gaze wander away from the men discussing a price (John Martinelli, Luca Rutherford, James Avec – his mind supplied), he was met with the fierce eyes of his little brother.

Damian was looking at him. His Damian. The little brat Tim had tried to save. The little kid he had failed.

Tim could see how Damian tried to hide the tear-tracks on his cheeks behind a fierce glare. He could see the fear in the way these tiny shoulders shook, and the iron will in the tight frown on his forehead.

Damian was thirteen. And he was fucking terrified.

Tim couldn’t say he blamed him for that.

Damian was thirteen, but at least he was no longer alone. At least he didn’t have be afraid on his own anymore. Tim might be just as caught, and he might hate the kid sometimes, but he wasn’t an asshole.

Tim just hoped the nod in Damian’s direction looked more reassuring than Tim felt.

Tim just hoped that he wouldn’t pay for this with his life.

(Tim just hoped that Bruce would come and save them all – he wanted his dad, but that was something he didn’t even allow himself to think about)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your FEEDBACK gives me life! And your thoughts make me happy! <3


	17. On The Ground - Damian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next time he opened his eyes, the world made much more sense. Damian wished the drowsiness of the drugs back almost immediately. 
> 
> Because this was bad.
> 
> This was horrible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome back to the MOTHER DOUGH!!!  
> So many thanks for all your thoughts and comments!! You guys really made my day!!   
> This is the first part of the Damian chapter, so be ready for more next week!
> 
> Warnings: Internalized Ableism both by Damian and Demon's Head, Kidnapping, Nastiness, Not Happy Times

The last thing Damian remembered clearly was the extreme dread that had tied him to his chair. The feeling of warm arms hugging him close, while threatening to make him throw up.

The hug his own evil version had graced him with felt nothing like the touches Richard had given so freely in their time together as Batman and Robin. It felt nothing like the short bursts of affection his Father offered, or the tedious cuddle-fests Brown tried to drag him into. It didn’t even feel like the shoulder touches Pennyworth so often engaged in.

No, it felt like dying when the Demon’s Head had pulled him closer, whispering sweet promises of pain into Damian’s ears.

Everything after that became sort of hazy.

There’d been a pinprick of pain in his neck, and the world had grown grey, only the words of his double echoing in his head:

“Huh, Mother gave you a fancy chip? I would recognize these scars anywhere. I wonder what happens if I short-circuit her tech?”

After that Damian had felt nothing much at all.

Awareness was a funny thing.

Sometimes Damian would catch glimpses of woods and the rough feeling of a person holding him while they ran, but then he would close his eyes and the forest would vanish again, giving place to a dirty car with trash on the backseat.

He would blink his eyes open, and unknown hands would force him into a jacket, and he would glance to the side and he would see himself.

What he was doing outside of his own body he had no idea.

Sometimes someone would touch him, guide him, carry him, but Damian was never really sure if it truly happened. If there was actually someone close by.

He didn’t feel real.

His body was far away – so far away, in fact, that sometimes Damian thought he saw himself move and do stuff without Damian being present.

It was weird, Damian couldn’t remember being that tall. Or that big. But it was definitely his face that grew dark and it was his sword that pierced the flesh of that man Damian hadn’t even known was there.

He didn’t like killing. Why did his body have to do it?

Maybe it was time to close his eyes again. Maybe it was time to let the blurriness wash him away, to let the haze return and the calm settle in his bones.

Not that Damian was still the master of his own body, the owner of his bones.

Maybe sleep would help with that.

The next time he opened his eyes, the world made much more sense. Damian wished the drowsiness of the drugs back almost immediately.

Because this was bad.

This was horrible.

But, no, he wouldn’t cry. He was Damian al Ghul Wayne, and he wouldn’t cry just because he knew escape was impossible. Just because he knew he was doomed.

Damian wouldn’t be able to save himself – and with everything going on at the Manor he wouldn’t count on them saving him either.

Because Damian couldn’t feel his legs. Or his hips. Or anything below his belly button, really.

 _Focusing on something else might help_ , Richard’s voice provided before Damian could allow himself to spiral. And Richard was right: Damian had to investigate his surroundings before he could make any call regarding his own situation. And for as long as Damian had something to do, he would not allow himself to panic.

Robin had no use for panic. Robin was a professional, even if Damian just wanted to be a kid for once in his life.

He was in a warehouse. Of course, he was. The superstitious lot of Gotham loved to use the abandoned warehouses near the harbor for all kinds of nefarious plans, and it was by far not the first time Robin had woken up in a room like this, with a dirty floor, and only a handful of lights working.

Only this time it wasn’t rope and a well-laid plan that kept Damian in his place. It was the fact that he wouldn’t be able to run no matter how much he wanted to. No matter how much he tried.

No.

He couldn’t allow himself to think of that.

He wouldn’t.

He had to focus.

Damian let his eyes wander, searching for any clues his eyes could find. The walls of this particular room were cement, without any kind of decoration and colored ugly by age. There was not much to find, not much to concentrate on. That was rather unfortunate, since Damian could already feel the panic creep back in.

The fact that he had been left alone most certainly didn’t help.

His hands were tied behind his back and he was in his pajamas – the ones with the silly Nightwing symbol printed on. There was a lingering dizziness still persistent in his head, and he knew that he would soon be getting a headache – his body trying to break down the toxins he had been injected with.

But until then he was left feeling numb and awake, only his eyes able to move freely. And his mouth. His evil self hadn’t gagged him, leaving him alone with the possibility to scream.

He should do it. He should at least try to get the attention of someone, to maximize the chance of getting saved, but something held Damian back.

His pride.

He knew it would be fruitless – any version of himself would be intelligent enough not to let an escape like that happen. Damian himself would only leave his captive the ability to scream if he knew that no one would be able to hear them. If it only worked as a tool to tire the prisoner out and break the trust they had in the world.

So, no, Damian wouldn’t yell and scream and cry. Even if he wanted to. Even if he should.

He wouldn’t. Because he didn’t know how long this endeavor would take. He had no clue about how long his pride would be the only thing that kept him going. He might need it yet; it would be foolish to give up the only thing he had left so early on.

Damian knew how to break a prisoner – and he was sure that the Demon’s Head would be even better at it.

But… with all of that out of the way, there was only one thing left his mind could focus on: The way in which his legs were placed in front of him. The uncomfortable position they were in – or more accurately: The way in which Damian was unable to feel them.

His double must have managed to destroy the chip that kept Damian’s artificial spine connected to his brain. If he was lucky, it was only disabled – but he so rarely got lucky. What if… what if this was it?

Damian had gotten so many second chances. He had gotten his ability to walk back after Flamingo shot him, he had gotten his life back after his Mother’s creation killed him, he had gotten his family back – mostly – after both Father and Richard had forgotten him… what if this was the price he had to pay?

Kidnapped and unable to run.

Kidnapped and unable to save himself.

He truly was a worthless Robin. Well, he would no longer be Robin once this was over.

It was easier to think about his lack of future than to think about the wrongness of his lower body. You shouldn’t be able to see parts of yourself without being able to feel them. Move them. You shouldn’t be able to only control half of your body but not the other one.

Damian had been out of it for most of the time when it had happened the first time around. His memories of the days following that fatal shooting were hazy at best. But right now he could very clearly recall the dread of lying on the floor bleeding, unable to move, only vaguely being able to watch as Batman fought for him. As Batman tried to save his life.

There would be no Batman to save him this time.

There would only be this: his own crumbled form on the dirty floor somewhere in Gotham, unable to escape. There would only be panic and dread pooling in his stomach, fear taking hold of his heart.

There would only be the knowledge that Damian would never be Robin again.

Getting kidnapped had been his first great mistake. It was a show of weakness to be captured like this. Damian was no longer worthy of the title of Robin. Hah, he was barely worthy of the title of Bruce Wayne’s son.

And now he would no longer get a chance to prove his worth through great physical feats. No, he was looking as his bare feet right now, and he couldn’t feel the cold, couldn’t trick them into twitching and moving.

Damian knew that Father wouldn’t abandon him because of Damian’s loss of ability. Damian had met Barbara after all, had seen her fight while sitting in her chair. Damian had watched on days he wasn’t allowed out on patrol as Oracle saved the city again and again and again, before Batman ever got a chance.

But Damian also knew Father had almost destroyed himself over the guilt of Barbara getting shot. And he knew that Oracle was many things, but she wasn’t Robin.

Just as Damian knew that he would never fly in Richard’s colors again. Just as he would be confined to saving the world from behind a screen – and Damian was kind of bad with computers. He didn’t even particularly like them.

He didn’t have anything besides his fighting talents to offer. Sometimes, nothing was more glaringly obvious than that. Yes, he could fight and win and stand back up again, but he didn’t have Drake’s or Barbara’s understanding of computers, or Brown’s and Todd’s instinct in the midst of a battle. He didn’t have his Father’s presence or his Richard’s wit.

He was just a little assassin, created to destroy. And now he would no longer be able to do just that.

The dust in the room irritated his eyes, making tears pool in them, but Damian did his best to hide this weakness behind a sniffle and an iron will. He wouldn’t satisfy his own evil self by crying. He wouldn’t bow to this soft part inside of him that wanted a hug or maybe Alfred the Cat to cuddle with him.

Damian Wayne was a great many things, but he wasn’t a crier.

The rusty door to the room Damian was stowed in opened with a screech, and through it stepped the Demon’s Head. He had switched his robes for a soft shirt and practical pants, and Damian wanted to flinch back, only for his body not to react.

It was haunting, how much this Damian looked like Father. How much of Mother hid in the face, while the large frame declared his heritage as a Wayne to the world.

Damian always wondered what he would look like once he hit his growth spurt, but he hadn’t thought he would find out like this: Cowering, dirty, and frightened while he awaited his own doom. 

“You are awake, I see.”

“What did you give me?” Demanded Damian, hoping that his voice didn’t betray him.

He was falling apart on the inside, but he wouldn’t give his enemy even an inch. Damian would not fall further than he had to. He would meet his end with grace, and he would honor his family’s name while he did so. Maybe it was true, what his brain tried to tell him. Maybe nobody would come for him. But even the absence of hope did not justify giving up. Not even the lack of rescue would excuse Damian losing his pride and honor.

“A sedative I invented for the League. It is a clever little thing: Fast acting, strong, with only a bare minimum of side effects.”

The Demon’s Head stepped closer while he talked, until he was close enough for Damian to touch his legs should he want to. No enemy would ever voluntarily step into the range of Damian, of Robin, and yet Damian knew that it was just another show of power on the Demon’s Head’s part: Both of them knew that there was nothing Damian could do.

“What are you going to do?”

What else was Damian supposed to say? He wouldn’t cry, couldn’t allow himself to sink so low, but he couldn’t antagonize his own evil self any further either. It wouldn’t end well – and in his time as Robin Damian had learnt when you had to taint an enemy and when it was best to be silent. Or ask questions, as it was now the case.

His double crouched down, a smile on his face, until Damian could look him into the Lazarus green eyes without straining his back:

“What I am going to do? Well, I am going to hurt Bruce Wayne. By hurting you. I will destroy Batman. By destroying you.”

“You imbecile will never succeed!”

So much for Damian’s plan of keeping his mouth shut. But this evil bastard had just insulted Father, had insinuated that Father would be bested by this fake, and Damian wouldn’t stand for it!

The anger burning inside of him was so much easier to carry than the fear whenever his body didn’t move in the way he expected it to. Whenever he struggled to just stay upright. The anger was good. The anger kept him alive.

The Demon’s Head only laughed:

“We will see. But… what exactly went wrong with your spine? I can’t imagine that Grandfather would keep a faulty version around, if that happened while you were with the League. But then again… it was Mother’s tech that kept you going.”

“None of your business!”

“Then make it my business!”

The Demon’s Head’s voice had been so soft the entire time, so American, but suddenly it was Grandfather speaking, Grandfather demanding Damian to behave.

It might have been three years since Damian had left the League, since his Mother decided he would be saver somewhere else, but he could still feel the command sink into his very core.

His eyes were trained to the floor – _and, no, there were no tears visible_! – as he answered what the Demon’s Head had asked:

“I… almost three years ago, at the beginning of my time as the rightful Robin, I got shot. Multiple times. In the spine. Batman… Batman asked Mother for help. And Mother provided help. She gave me a new spine, connecting it via a chip to my brain stem, and hid me from Grandfather until I was well enough to return home.”

Damian hated the way his voice shook, hated the way dampness managed to creep down his cheeks.

“Don’t cry. This is only the beginning of what is going to happen. If you cry now, what will you do later, when the pain starts?”

Damian hadn’t known that his own voice could sound so sweet, so innocent, but now that he did, it only made him sick to his stomach. That his own evil self would sound so _good_ , that the promises of pain fell so easily from a mouth Damian was so intimately familiar with.

The Demon’s Head was drying the tears on his cheeks, and Damian’s skin was crawling. He wanted to get away. He needed to get away. He had to…

His attempt only ended with him almost falling over, his propped-up body unable to even crawl with the Demon’s Head so close.

The fact that it had been his double’s hands that kept him upright, that supported him, only made it worse. He couldn’t stop the words from escaping, couldn’t stop his own voice from sounding small and forlorn and scared:

“What did you do to my back?”

“Not much. I disabled the tech, that is all. Ever since Mother tried to microchip me when I was twelve, I tend to go the extra mile when it comes to her technological advances. Better safe than sorry and all that.”

This answer did nothing to quell Damian’s worry, nothing to make the pit threatening to swallow him up go away.

It had been a long, long time since Damian had felt this helpless, and he didn’t like it at all.

He wanted Richard. He wanted Father. He wanted Wayne Manor and a good, tight hug.

But all he could do was cry, watching as his shame ate away at him, as his worth turned into dust. He tried to keep ahold of himself, tried to keep the sobs silent and his shoulder’s straight, but not even that could protect him from the chiding tone in the Demon’s Head’s voice:

“-tt-, don’t cry. It makes you look weaker than you are. Or am I wrong? Does the Batman use children now to do his dirty work? _Weak_ , soft children?”

“I am worthy! I am… I am the Son of Batman. I am Robin. I am worthy of my title and of my family!”

It could have been impressive if Damian’s voice didn’t shake. If Damian wasn’t trying to convince himself just as much as he was trying to convince the Demon’s Head. If it wasn’t his own doubt he had just thrown out in the open.

Damian loved his family, but more often than not, he doubted his place. More often than not, it was his own hope that got poured down the drain like watercolor, and not the doubt that needed to die.

Damian didn’t sound impressive – he sounded like a petulant child. And for once in his life he felt like one as well.

“I am sure you are. I read up on that: Batman and Robin, the Dynamic Duo. This team-up has existed for what now? Sixteen years? There is no way you are the first one. Do tell me, Little Me, what happened to the other Robins?”

 _They moved on! It is mine now!_ Damian wanted to yell. But that would be a lie, wouldn’t it? Robins never moved on from the title by their own volition. Damian had engaged in some information gathering, back when he expected a knife to the throat at every turn, and it had been surprisingly easy to find out what happened to each Robin: Fired and thrown out; Dead; Outside Influences; Dead; Fired.

Looking at the numb flesh of his legs Damian knew that he would suffer the same fate.

Robin taken away long before he was ready to give it up. Robin taken away before he had a chance to truly make it his own.

But that was not an answer worthy of the Demon’s Head:

“They became heroes in their own right. Robin is a legacy created by my Batman, a legacy that carries great honor with it – and that I deserve because it was given to me by its creator because he saw me as worthy.”

“Father was always exceptionally good at making little children feel special. The bastard could twist even the strongest of minds until they thought it had been their idea to put on a crazy costume and kill people in cold blood.”

“Father didn’t make me Robin. Richard did. My Batman, my older brother, the first Robin to fly. He gave me his name and he showed me his path when I couldn’t see anything besides the lies the League had told me.”

Damian wanted to look away. He wanted to hide his eyes, to vanish, to disappear, but he couldn’t. _He wouldn’t._

Instead, he continued to hold his double’s gaze, never wavering, never straying far. And it seemed to work. At least for a moment the Demon’s Head had fallen silent, returning the intensity of Damian’s gaze. And then he smiled, and Damian didn’t like it at all:

“Our worlds are pretty different, huh?”

“Hah, of course, they are!”

“You have spirit, Little Me, even if you are quick to anger and even quicker to bring to tears. Well, I grew up in Wayne Manor. Or at least I did for a couple of years. When I saw Mother again as I was ten, it was as if I was seeing her for the first time. I couldn’t even remember her face.”

There was something wistful in the Demon’s Head’s eyes and it frightened Damian. Especially since his evil self was still caressing his cheeks, even if the tears had long since dried.

He wanted to run away so badly. He wanted to kick and scream and fight.

He did neither.

Instead he answered, his voice soft:

“Mother looked after me, while I was in the League. She made sure that Grandfather never grew too harsh with me. But… it became too dangerous. Grandfather wanted more than either of us could give. So, she sent me to Father. Only he didn’t want me. He already had children that were worth the effort. He had heirs and heroes and sons – a daughter – he could be proud of. He didn’t need me. But… even when he didn’t need me, he didn’t send me away. And now he needs me. Now he loves me.”

“Isn’t that what we all want when it comes to Bruce Wayne? For the man to love us? The truth is: Nobody gets it though.”

With that the Demon’s Head stood up, the movement so swift Damian was unable to follow it with his eyes. Relief flooded his veins at the absence of touch. Normally Damian craved it – now he wanted nothing more than to never be touched like this ever again.

His double turned around, moving towards the door once more, when the fear took hold of his heart:

“Wait! What is going to happen? You can’t just leave me here…”

“Oh, but I can. And I will. But I will give you a little tip on what is going to happen next: I want to hurt Father. And for some reason the Batman of this world cares for you – so I am going to take you away. But simply killing you would be too easy. No, I will do what was done to me: I will kill you and bring you back so often that only a sliver of the child Bruce Wayne loves will be left – and then I will kill you again, just as my friend rams a knife between Batman’s ribs, so he can die knowing that he couldn’t save his son.”

“You won’t succeed…”

But the bite was gone from Damian’s voice. There was only horror left. He would die. Again. And it would hurt. Again. And this time it would only bring pain… Only this time he would take Father with him. Only this time hope would die as well.

“And how are you going to stop me? You can’t even stand up, Little Me, and I am one of the best. Accept your fate and this will be easier for both of us.”

With that the door closed, leaving Damian alone. The tears were pooling down his face before the last echo of metal on cement had ceased. All hope was lost – the only thing left to do was wait.

Damian couldn’t be exactly sure how much time had passed when his own evil self returned to take him somewhere else. He just knew that it must have been hours, at the very least.

How long had he been missing by now? A day? Two days? Maybe even three?

He couldn’t be sure, especially not since he had been drugged for most it. Had his family even realized that he was missing yet, or had they been too caught up in the drama of Talon? Was someone searching for him?

Damian just didn’t know.

He had been sleeping when the Demon’s Head returned – his body exhausted and thirsty and weak – and adrenaline flooded his system when he heard the tell-tale clang of the old mental door. He was awake in mere seconds, his heart beating fast, his breath coming in short bursts.

He struggled to sit up, his arms pushing him upwards, his legs… his legs didn’t move. Couldn’t move.

For a moment Damian had forgotten. For a moment he had been whole again, if only in his head.

It took him multiple deep breaths to be able to look up again, to push the teary emotions deep down, and focus on what was currently happening: The Demon’s Head stood in the doorway watching Damian with an amused expression.

A true bastard. Imbecile.

“What?”

“I only came to tell you that our transport is ready, but this was quite amusing to watch as well.”

“You… you worthless pile of garbage! How anyone could have ever seen any use in you, I don’t know! Father must have made the right choice when he sent you back to Mother. He-“

Damian knew that it was one of his character-flaws. He knew that his temper tended to get him in trouble and his hot-headedness – as Richard tended to call it – rarely helped to deescalate a situation. And Damian had been getting better – he had worked so much on his outbursts those last few months, had learned coping strategies from YouTube and breathing exercises from Brown…

But this was a high-stress situation. Damian was strung so taunt – snapping had been inevitable. He only wished it hadn’t happened like this.

The Demon’s Head’s hand connected with his cheek with a loud slap. Damian’s entire head changed direction, his jaw aching bone deep, his skin aflame in pain and shame. He could still hear the sound of skin hitting skin at a high velocity even seconds after the last echo had ceased.

The Demon’s Head had slapped him.

And now he spoke, his voice dangerous even through the rushing sound of blood pumping through Damian’s head:

“You might be a brat, and I won’t kill you just now, but it would be better if you remembered just who you are talking to. I have hurt men for less – the Demon’s Head demands respect. Even from small, petulant children like yourself.”

Damian’s answering nod was small and shaky, his eyes closed tight. He wouldn’t let the tears escape. He couldn’t cry. His double would use every show of weakness against him – Damian knew that because he would do the same.

He had been taught to do the same while he had still lived with the League.

The rough hand on his face came as a surprise, and his eyes flew open, only to see a soft look in his evil self’s eyes:

“Sorry to hit you so hard, but you needed a little reminder on who is the boss, Little Me. But now we can get things on the road: We have to pick some people up on the way, but it’s time to get this party started, isn’t it?”

With that the Demon’s Head pushed a thumb into Damian’s mouth, forcing him to open his jaw. Pain radiated through his entire face, as a rough piece of cloth was balled up and pushed between his teeth only to be secured by another long piece of fabric being tied around Damian’s head.

A gag.

Damian Wayne had just been successfully gagged.

He tried to force the gag out of his mouth with his tongue, but there was no room for him to achieve said goal. The only thing he could do was moan and make embarrassing noises of distress. Damian only had to glance at his double once to see the amusement at his futile attempts to struggle. He stopped. He wouldn’t be able to escape the gag – or his imprisonment – and he wouldn’t give the Demon’s Head the satisfaction of seeing Damian whimper.

Damian was struck down, but he wouldn’t bow. At least not yet.

He came awfully close, however, when the Demon’s Head continued to secure him. He couldn’t feel the ropes around his legs, of course, couldn’t feel the tight binding and the restriction of movement. But he could see the excess rope laying on the floor behind his double.

He knew his hands would be next.

And while Damian would be able to deal with this lack of voice, he didn’t know if he could cope with the inability to move anything at all.

Panic was already making his heart beat faster and it hurt to think that it would only be getting worse.

Damian watched as the Demon’s Head grabbed one of the arms holding him up, and pulled, making Damian fall sideways. He cherished the sensation of touch, the fact that he could actually feel what was happening to his body, but he hated the fact that it were the Demon’s Head’s hands that touched him. He dreaded the moment rope would replace those hands.

The moment his last bit of freedom would be taken away.

For a second Damian toyed with the idea of fighting, toyed with the idea of struggling, but then rope got twisted around his left wrist and Damian’s entire body got dragged towards the Demon’s Head so that the man could tie up his right arm as well.

It was too late.

Damian Wayne was bound.

He tried to move away from his position on the Demon’s Head’s lap, but all he achieved was a wiggle of his shoulders that probably looked completely undignified. There was no give in his bindings, no room for escape. He was bound and couldn’t move. He couldn’t save himself.

Fear made his heart heavy and his head dull.

He wanted home. He wanted the Manor and Father and Pennyworth and Richard. He wanted scones and Biryani and tea. He wanted to feel his legs again. To walk. To run.

 _He wanted to be Robin again_.

When the Demon’s Head picked him up, throwing him over his shoulder like he was nothing – a bug or a bag of trash to dispose of – Damian couldn’t stop the tears that once again spilled from his eyes.

He had grown weak. He had grown weak and pathetic and soft. It was all Father’s fault. It was all Richard’s fault.

“Shhh, Little Me, it is gonna be alright. I promise you I will make your first death painless – everything after that one won’t bother you as much anymore.”

Damian couldn’t speak, even if there were words he wanted to say, so the only thing that escaped him was a whimper – the whimper he had promised himself to not let escape.

 _I already died once,_ Damian wanted to say. _I already died once, and it isn’t even the worst thing that ever happened to me. Even if I wish it was._

_I already died once, and I really don’t want to die again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hearing your thoughts and ideas gives me life! <3<3


	18. In The Air - Damian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim and Damian get taken - maybe this is the time for some brotherly bonding?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome back for another Damian chapter!!!  
> Thank you SO MUCH for all your love and I hope you'll enjoy this!
> 
> Warning: Internalized Ableism, Death Imagery, Sadness

Drug dealers and smugglers.

The Demon’s Head had paid a bunch of scum to transport them out of Gotham and Damian hated that it would most likely work.

Especially now, with his double appearing from behind the crates in the corner of Damian’s field of vision, pushing Drake towards them.

Drake, who was gagged. Drake, who was bound.

Drake who had failed to save Damian, now just as doomed as Damian had been before.

He didn’t listen when the Demon’s Head started arguing with the smugglers, instead his focus was only on Drake. There was no mask adjourning his eyes, no cape and cowl to hide his features, and yet Damian could clearly recognize that tunic as the one Red Robin wore.

Pathetic.

Drake had been caught and stripped of his gear – at least Damian had been taken when he was at his most vulnerable. Damian had been kidnapped while he was at his weakest; Tim got caught while he was supposed to be at his best.

Damian wanted to feel superior, he was grasping for straws filled with comfort, but there was not much that could sooth the nausea bubbling in his stomach. There was even less masking the pity in Drake’s eyes as he looked at him.

Damian didn’t need pity. He stood above such frivolous emotions. Above such weakness.

(only he would never stand at all)

Drake was pushed down next to him. For a moment Damian thought he must be hallucinating, because Drake pressed his shoulder against Damian’s, with a move that vaguely resembled comfort. Did he really look that miserable? Did he really appear that weak? Was this truly necessary?

Drake was comforting him, his eyes soft as they watched Damian, his body close.

If Damian could talk, he would be spewing poison right now. He could feel it bubbling up his throat. He wanted to call Drake an imbecile, an idiot, unworthy, useless… he wanted to make that look of pity vanish, he wanted this feeling of helplessness to burn.

He was embarrassed. He was helpless and weak, dressed in old and dirty pajamas. Tears had soaked his gag, and his cheek was pulsing with pain and heat. He was a miserable sight – and it had to be Drake who found him. Of course, it’d been.

His worst competitor for his father’s love.

Against the common assumption, Damian didn’t hate Drake. Or maybe he had, when he’d first come to the Manor, but Damian wasn’t the same kid anymore. Damian had long ago stopped being that child.

No. He saw different things when he looked at Drake now. And he knew some of these emotions to be childish and factually incorrect, but… Damian was jealous of Drake. Because Drake had Father’s love. Respect. _Trust_.

Because at the end of the day Cain, Gordon, and Brown all favored Drake.

Because Drake had had his own team, with heroes that only belonged to him.

Because Drake had the respect of the entire superhero community.

Damian was just the charity case, the little assassin you had to watch and fear. But Drake? Even Wonder Woman trusted Drake.

Family meant duty. Damian had come to accept that a long time ago, and he knew that no one would send him away, that no one would ever publicly claim to love Drake better than him, but that didn’t make it any less true.

So, Damian didn’t hate Drake, but the shame of being seen like this by him burned like the heat of a thousand suns. It almost made him forget the horrors of everything else. The horror of not even being able to really return the pressure against his shoulder with a move of his own. The horror of not being able to move at all.

It didn’t take long for the men in front of them to come to an agreement and suddenly everything around Damian was in motion again.

Everyone walked and talked and ran and carried – everyone except him.

His legs unresponsive, his arms bound, his mouth gagged.

Drake was pulled onto his feet, Damian being thrown over yet another shoulder, and both of them entered the plane that would send them far, far away. Out of Batman’s reach. And into the clutches of Damian’s personal horror show.

They walked past the plush interior, everything upside-down and bumpy for Damian, whose head connected with the back of the guy carrying him at every step. Darkness bathed them only moments later, when the door to a hidden holding bay got opened. It was a smuggling vessel after all, designed to hide hidden goods from border inspectors and the police.

“Move!”

Drake was the first one to get pushed down there, worry visible on his face. But the fool complied, not fighting for his own freedom even once. Not fighting for his own safety. The idiot probably thought he was doing Damian a favor. Thought he was doing the right thing.

The only thing he did was bring himself pain and suffering.

Damian joined Drake fast enough, the gruff “Catch!” of his charming carrier the only warning he got before he was flung into the dark space. He wasn’t exactly sure where he landed, but he could hear the air leaving Drake’s lungs as their bodies connected.

His upper body hit the grated floor only a short moment later, his legs out of his field of vision, Damian unable to see how they had landed. Not that he would have been able to see all that much to begin with – the room was pitch black. Next to him Drake started to move, soft grunts of effort the only thing audible next to the thrumming of Damian’s heart and his own labored breathing.

And then another sound joined them: The engines of the plane returned to life, a roaring noise drowning everything else out.

For a few all-encompassing minutes his entire world only consisted of this: Noise and darkness, and the lack of a body. There was only Damian’s mind left, no part of him coherent enough to find solace in the theory of Drake’s existence or the grounding capabilities of the rough floor beneath him rubbing against his arms.

Because to him there was only noise.

He couldn’t even think anymore, the sledgehammer of the engine’s roaring too loud to let anything else stay. His eyes weren’t able to hold onto something either, the darkness threatening to swallow Damian whole.

This was what death felt like.

This was what it had felt like to fall and fall and fall until he reached hell. Because his world had ceased to exist the moment Herectic had pushed a sword through his heart, his body had bleed into night, and his mind had been reeling, screaming in pain as logic fell away, only leaving room for the unexplainable.

For the harsh coldness of death and the reality of things no man should ever encounter.

And now he was back there, back in the minutes after his death, when his mind hadn’t ceased yet, when Damian Wayne had still known his own name, his own soul.

This was what death felt like: No body, no voice, no safety – only pain.

His eyes were squeezed shut, tears running down his face once more by the time the roaring of the plane became little more than an annoying background noise. Sensation returned slowly, and it was still lacking so much. And yet Damian was almost gleeful to feel the rope burn on his arms, and the ache in his shoulders and his back that told him he was alive.

 _He was alive_.

But still he didn’t open his eyes, not yet ready to face the darkness surrounding him. Which was probably why he didn’t notice Drake moving, only flinching back when a hand suddenly touched his arm. The voice that accompanied said hand was probably the sweetest thing Damian had ever heard. Another reminder that he was alive:

“Hey? Everything alright?”

What a dumb and inane question. Of course, Damian wasn’t alright. Of course, Damian couldn’t answer, the gag still painfully secured in his mouth. His eyes flew open, outrage being a safe emotion, a good emotion Damian was familiar enough with to know how to navigate it.

Light greeted him.

No, the red glow of an emergency exit sign greeted him, coloring the holding bay and them in a red hue and washing at least some of the panic threatening to drown him down the drain.

He could see.

He wasn’t back there again (even if he would soon be). He wasn’t falling. And he wasn’t dead (yet). And he still had a body (at least some of it).

Next to him Drake moved again, and Damian turned his head to get a better look: The older boy had freed himself from the gag and the ropes holding his arms in place, and when Damian continued the search with his eyes, he also found out how: A small, finger-long knife was clutched in Drake’s hand. An emergency knife in the style of Ra’s al Ghul. The replacement had learned something while he was away then, after all.

“It’s alright, Damian. Sorry, I forgot that you wouldn’t see me with your eyes closed like that…”

Drake’s voice carried a nervous energy. If it hadn’t been for that, Damian might have found it in himself to be offended – Drake implied that Damian was weak after all. But he was too tired for his game of pretend. His emotions were raw. Yes, there was anger bubbling in his stomach, but the fear was so much worse.

He tried not to flinch as Drake scooted closer, his knife horribly close to Damian’s face.

The holding bay was small, barely enough room for the two of them and a couple of boxes, but that was to ensure it wouldn’t be found. The small size made it harder for them to be saved and almost impossible for them to escape: No room for leverage to open the probably bolted shut door into the main area of the plane.

Not that Damian would be much help.

The gag fell away, and as soon as Damian could feel it loosening, he started to push the fabric out of his mouth with his tongue. It tasted disgusting, his mouth was dry, and the smell of hours old spittle was pungent. Drake offered to help, but Damian almost bit his finger when it came too close to his mouth.

No one would touch Damian’s face again. He would make sure of that.

(no, he wouldn’t)

But Drake was intelligent for once, and instead of insisting on helping Damian do something he was perfectly capable of doing himself, he moved on towards the rope bindings. Damian didn’t have the heart – or the ability yet – to tell him that it would be useless to cut away the rope keeping his legs in place.

Instead he enjoyed his first easy breaths in hours – days? – and let his eyes wander, while his mind calmed down.

It didn’t take long for Drake to finish, the boy taking his place next to Damian again as if he was waiting for something. Damian had no idea what to give him. All he could do was lay here. His only worth was being used as a bargaining chip – after all he was no longer Robin.

Hah, that had to be something that would make Drake happy:

“You can have Robin back.”

His voice was scratchy and it hurt to talk, but Damian pushed the words out anyway. Next to him Drake reeled back, surprise and something else visible on his face:

“What the hell, Damian?”

“You can have Robin back. I am no longer suited for the role. You get what you always wanted: Your precious title all for yourself.”

“Let me repeat myself: _What the hell, Damian_? This is neither the time nor the place for this. We need a plan. A course of action.”

Drake’s furious whisper sounded almost funny to Damian, something jaded inside of him crumbling a bit under the pressure. He was useless. Worthless. They would only be killed because of him. Well, that was his fate anyways.

“I can’t.”

“What the fuck does that mean? _You can’t_? You are a Wayne! An Al Ghul! Robin! All things you frequently remind me off!”

Drake was touching his arm now, shaking him, trying to coax a reaction from Damian. But Damian wouldn’t let him. It was all worthless anyway. Yes, he was glad to be able to move his arms again, to be able to speak and breathe and feel. But his legs were still only numb logs of flesh and his future was still just as bleak.

“Damian?” And now Drake sounded soft, and Damian could do nothing more but glance in the direction of the older boy and see how worried he was.

He had never told anyone this. He made sure that Richard and Pennyworth would bury it deep in his medical files, that only those he trusted were aware of his weakness. His failure. And now he needed to tell Drake, the replacement Robin, the one that had impressed Grandfather.

But maybe it would be enough to ensure that Drake would at least safe himself. Damian was worthless after all. And if Drake succeeded in an escape, he could warn Father. He could tell Father not to come looking for him, he would tell Father of the threat Damian had been informed off.

He would protect the family where Damian had failed:

“I… As of now I am paraleiptic. Every sensation or motor control beneath the fifth lumbar vertebrae is completely gone.”

“What?”

“I can’t walk, Drake. That is what that means.”

“I know that, you… Why?” Drake considerably paled.

Damian had no idea what to feel about that.

Because that meant honest worry and shock, and Damian had always been very bad at accepting pity from other people. Only Richard had ever achieved making Damian feel comfortable when he was being comforted – and before the year that would destroy them all began, Father and Brown had done their best in achieving said ability as well.

But here he was, more vulnerable than he had ever wanted to be in his life, and Drake was trying to comfort him – or he would do so as soon as he overcame his shock.

Damian couldn’t do much more than talk, so for once he did just that:

“During Richard’s time as Batman we fought against Todd and Flamingo. The fight was a complete disaster and it ended with Todd escaping and Flamingo shooting me… five times. Mother saved me, but it had a catch.”

“It always has with them.”

Damian wanted to snap at Drake for interrupting him, but the wistful expression on the older boy’s face stopped him. In some ways Drake might even understand it best, having fought the League on a quite intimate level as well.

“Yes. Mother had planted a chip in my new spine. And while Richard managed to disable it eventually – or at least the body snatching function of it – it is still the weak spot of my back.”

“Shit.”

“Yes, Drake ‘ _shit_ ’ is a quite apt description of our current situation. Mine in particular.”

But Drake ignored the scathing quality of Damian’s voice, the paleness of his cheeks still haunting. He looked pitying. He looked soft. He looked like he cared for Damian.

It made his heart ache and his soul burn, mostly because he knew it was a lie. Damian had tried to kill Drake – twice – and he knew he didn’t deserve forgiveness just yet. Only the chance to truly repay Drake had never arisen, duty being the only thing that tied them to the same family. But Damian’s mistakes were plentiful – he would only do himself harm if he tried to count them all.

He had almost killed Richard as well, after all.

“What next?”

Of course, that would be Drake’s question. He always liked plans way too much and now he would try to get them out of this situation, even if Damian already knew that there would be no way out:

“Next I am going to get killed and brought back until I am insane, and you are probably going to end up dead sooner rather than later as well.”

Drake looked at him, and Damian wished he could vanish, the gaze inquiring and clever. It was annoying how intuitive and intelligent Drake could be, how his mind worked like Father’s, where Damian only thought like the family disgrace Todd:

“Let me check the door.”

And with that Drake went and did what Damian couldn’t do: He checked the parameters, following the protocols all of them had learned, until they were sick of them, to the letter. He checked the small door, swaying as he went, he checked the emergency light, the boxes, and lastly, he came back and checked over Damian.

Every trace of nervousness had bled from his face, replaced by calculated competence. Damian would probably feel even more comforted if he hadn’t known that Drake was a fantastic liar. This mask of collected calm was for Damian’s peace of mind and not because Drake actually had any idea what to do.

“I am going to touch your legs, Damian. I need to check them for injuries, okay?”

“Why tell me? I won’t feel anything anyways!”

Damian wasn’t mean on purpose – just… his voice was the only thing he could use, his words the only thing that followed his control. His body had betrayed him, but his words never would. And he would spit them for as long as he could, grasping every straw his tired hands could find.

But this new, professional Drake didn’t react, his voice soft but almost emotionless when he continued to speak (and Damian wondered how freaked out Drake had to be on the inside):

“Because I want you to be aware of what’s happening. You deserve to know what is happening to your body. It’s yours, after all. And it sucks when you get no say, as I am sure you’re aware off.”

“How would you know?”

“Hm…” – Damian watched with a sick fascination as Drake took one of his legs, checking it, and laying it back down without him feeling even a single thing – “I am pretty sure Ra’s al Ghul has my spleen stored in one of his creepy mansions somewhere and I did most certainly not consent to leaving one of my internal organs laying around in an assassin’s base.”

What?

“What?” Damian couldn’t quite believe what he had just heard.

How could Drake have one of his organs missing and Damian knew nothing about it? He had hacked all medical files he could find. He looked over the stats of everyone in this vigilante clan of theirs on the regular. How could he have missed something like that?

“It was a long while ago. And I take my meds, so it’s not important right now. You, however, have a cut on your left calf. The boxes have nothing I could use as a bandage, so I will have to rip your PJs, sorry.”

Damian only absentmindedly listened… Drake hadn’t known about his spine either. And if Damian checked the records regularly, he could be sure that Drake did it obsessively.

But the two of them weren’t the only ones that hid things, right?

Damian had seen the medication bottles Richard carried with him. Medication bottles that never got mentioned in the medical files. What else where they hiding? What secret injuries and pain was being hidden by Todd? Cain? Brown? Had even Thomas engaged in this game of self-flagellation they all participated in?

Damian knew why he did it: Because he had been unsure in his position, he had felt weak, and hurt, and alone. He hadn’t been able to bear the knowledge that his enemies – everyone but Richard and Pennyworth back then – would be able to see how weak he’d been. How easily his life could have been destroyed.

(just as it was destroyed now – Robin gone, his future gone)

But why did Drake lie? Probably because of Damian as well. Because he feared Damian’s sword and temper.

And Richard? Probably because the man always talked about not wanting to burden anyone. Not wanting to burden Damian.

Maybe it was narcistic to think of himself as someone so important – but, especially with Drake and Richard, it was hard not to come to this conclusion: one of them hated him, the other one loved him. It was a logical assumption to expect them to think like this.

“All done. And now we can… we can try to come up with a plan.”

For a moment Drake’s façade had crumbled, but Damian hadn’t been fast enough. When he focused on Drake’s face once more, it was the calm mask of a hero staring back.

“What are we supposed to do? You might have a chance of escaping once this plane lands in Macao, but that chance is forsaken should you decide to try and carry me. I am heavy – and me… The Demon’s Head needs me for his plan to succeed.”

“So, you’re saying that I should run?”

“You should. You can warn Father, if that happens. You can make sure that everything works out. That Batman has a chance of… of helping me.”

Helping… they both knew that Damian meant saving.

“But it’ll be too late by then, won’t it? The evil bastard version of yourself will have killed you by then. Dipped you in the Pit. Bruce will be too late.”

Damian closed his eyes, forcing the tears to stay hidden. He wouldn’t allow himself to cry. Not again. He knew that his voice was barely a whisper, his throat still achingly dry:

“But what else are we supposed to do? If you stay, I will die just as fast, I will be just as lost, should Batman manage to save me.”

“But you wouldn’t be alone.”

“You don’t know that.”

They were talking about Damian’s death. They were talking about the inevitability of it.

And it threatened to swallow Damian.

His entire life he’d been trained to be the best warrior a person could be. Whenever he achieved something, succeeded in training, bested his teachers, Grandfather and Mother would both look at him and ask for _more, better, faster_.

He had grown up with the knowledge that death was just one of these things he would have to learn how to overcome. That one day he would die, and Grandfather would bring him back – if he hadn’t angered the man.

But then Damian _had_ died. Due to a misguided attempt of his Mother, Damian had died – he remembered it quite vividly – and Grandfather had not brought him back. No, it had been Father that had done everything to make sure Damian would breathe once more.

And Father had made sure that it wasn’t the Pit that touched him. Father had found something impossible, broke laws of the universe, to get his hands on a chaos shard and bring him back.

Dying had been horrible.

So had been coming back.

“I don’t want to die.” His throat tried to swallow his voice; his eyes dry as he focused on the shadow-clad ceiling above them. But he said it. He admitted to his weakness, bowing to the fear and the panic and the pain.

He couldn’t run. He wouldn’t survive.

Damian had not once in his life claimed the confinements of his age as a protection, but right now he wanted to yell ‘ _I am just a kid! I am just a child! Please stop hurting me!_ ’ with all his heart. But he wouldn’t. He would bear his suffering in silence – only his tears bearing witness to the pain he shed.

Because apparently Damian had control over many things – but not right now.

Right now, he was barely more than a pathetic child, desperately trying not to cry.

“I know.”

“Not helpful, Drake.”

It felt good to allow himself this moment of normality, to allow himself to roll his eyes at Drake’s improper interruption, even if it only soothed his soul for a short amount of time.

“I… man, this was never my strength, but… I won’t leave you, Damian. And you can scream and yell and shout but… I would be a fucking asshole if I left my little brother to die like that.”

“Little brother?”

“I mean, we can pretend to hate each other all we want but at the end of the day… If we’re not family, who is? Who is going to save us if the not the people we call our friends and family? And we most certainly aren’t friends – so, I guess we have to be brothers, right?”

Damian didn’t have to look at Drake to know that the boy was smiling. Something came loose inside of him, and for once it wasn’t anger. No, it was something he mostly knew from his interactions with Richard:

“Are you attempting to make a joke?”

“Maybe.”

“Stop. You are failing.”

Silence settled back over them, the sounds of the plane engine the only thing audible. Drake was sitting by his side, deliberately making sure that his hip touched Damian’s shoulder. At one point the older boy must have finished bandaging Damian’s leg, but he hadn’t noticed.

The silence didn’t feel all that horrible. It almost felt like companionship.

They still had nothing: No plan, no escape, no hope. But for now, they at least had each other.

It was a bit easier to stay further away from the dark thoughts, the horror at his own fate eating him up, with someone else next to him. Damian could almost pretend that it was Richard that offered comfort. That he was save at home, not paraleiptic, but just tired from patrol. That Drake was sitting on the other side of the couch, typing away on his tablet, chatting with one of his friends, as Dick’s hand comped through his hair, Pennyworth prepared a late dinner, and Father could be heard working somewhere in the background.

Maybe Brown had a home in this fantasy of his as well. Cain, too.

Yes, they could all be a part of his little delusional dream family.

“You like art, don’t you?”

“What?” Damian’s tone had become biting once more, but for once it wasn’t because he was angry. No, it was confusion and surprise that colored his words harsh.

“I mean, you draw. I have seen some of your sketches. Dick showed me a few of those you gifted to him. You are good. Really good.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Probably not all that much, but… when I was your age, I wanted to become a nature photographer.”

Damian couldn’t help himself, he had to look at Drake, his gaze finding the older boy with a wistful smile on his face. Damian asked:

“Photographer?”

“Yes. I mean, you probably know how I found out who Batman and Robin are, yeah? I followed them at night. Made photo after photo after photo. Most were shit, but some of them have real artistic value.”

The wistful quality to Drake’s words was one Damian knew all too well. He felt like that when he drew, pencils heavy in his hand, his head light with all the dreams of fame and glory that had nothing to do with Batman and everything with the masterpiece in front of him.

He let Drake continue, his breath still in anticipation of what would come next:

“Back when my parents were still alive, I wanted to work for National Geographic. You know, photo reportages… I wrote mock-up articles about Batman and Robin – I still did that even after I started wearing the costume. But…”

Drake fell silent, and Damian asked his question before he had any chance to second guess himself:

“But? Why didn’t you?”

“Batman needed me. Gotham needed me. I couldn’t just leave for some dream I had as a lonely child. I had a family now, a duty. And it’s not as if I regret it, at least not all that much… I like my job in R&D. And I still love photography. It just doesn’t have the same room in my life anymore.”

Damian turned the words over in his head. What did this mean for him? Was Drake subtly telling him that Damian would have to give up his artistic aspirations to stay Robin? Or was this about something else?

He didn’t know. And Damian didn’t like not knowing:

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“Because… hah, it’s gonna sound so bad, but because we are stuck on a plane to certain death together, and I realized that I don’t think we’ve ever had a conversation for longer than maybe five minutes outside of patrol in the entire three years we’ve known each other. And… and I am nineteen, you are thirteen, and I don’t think I ever told you that I think you are… cool. Alright. _Neat_.”

“Are you butchering the poor English language on purpose?”

“Maybe. It was getting too emotional.”

There it was again, the humor hidden in Drake’s clipped speech.

Damian had studied his Mother’s files, Father’s files, heck, he even tried to look at the notes Grandfather had collected on Drake, but he hadn’t thought Richard’s stray comment that ‘ _Oh, Timmy has a great sense of humor. You just have to tickle it out of him_ ’ after patrol one night would be factually more correct than any official recording.

“But for real Damian… Maybe we will die, maybe nobody will come to save us, but I don’t want you to be alone for that. Hell, I don’t want to be alone either. And I thought to myself, this kid draws, he has talent – maybe we can talk about something we can both appreciate for a bit.”

There was sorrow in Drake’s voice and for a moment Damian played with the idea that maybe Drake had things he regretted as well. That Damian wasn’t the only one that had a mental list that noted down every mistake he had ever made.

But he let that thought wander away from him again.

If Damian dared to go down that road, he would drown. And then nothing Drake – or even Father or Brown or Richard – did would be able to bring him back towards the surface. No, he let the hopelessness wash over him, without letting it seep into his cracks and crannies.

One day Damian would have to face all these things he regretted, and he feared that said day would be far too soon. It just wouldn’t be today.

“As if photography is an art.”

“Hey! Have you ever tried to take a good photo at night with a mirrorless lens? The lighting is shit. Especially since you can’t just carry a backdrop with you to make stuff look more even! It is really hard to get a good picture- Hey. Are you actually grinning right now? Holy shit, the brat can smile.”

“Get over yourself, Drake. I just thought it was humorous how you could obsess over something so frivolous as this.”

Damian’s voice was soft, and he hoped that Drake would hear it as well. Brown had once complained that Damian was bad at banter since he couldn’t tell where a playful insult ended, and real hatred began. He really hoped that he had toed the correct line just now.

It would be just like him to destroy a moment of tentative comradery.

But Drake didn’t seem to mind Damian’s interruption, instead he faked a scoff before he started to grin as well, his hip still pressed close against Damian’s side:

“Of course you would say that. Classical art and photography have been on a warpath ever since the 19th century. But let me tell you, there is one thing we have in common: The Golden Section. Good picture composition.”

Damian allowed himself to smile:

“But with all that technical support you are getting when you take a camera into your hands, I am not sure these things can be compared. I, on the other hand, find beauty by hand with my drawings.”

Drake laughed and answered, but Damian’s mind was far away. Breath was sucked from his lungs, as he realized some very simple things:

He would most probably die.

He would most likely suffer.

He would have a brother by his side and hope in his heart.

There was pain waiting for him in his future, fear hidden in his stomach, dread heavy in the back of his mind, but Damian was enjoying the moment. He had never been so small, so helpless, so weak. It had been ages since he had felt a bond as close as this to his family.

Because Drake was right. They were family. They were brothers. And if Damian had to die, he would do so with a like-minded soul by his side.

(he just hoped Richard would be able to cope with his loss)

If Damian had to die, he would at least have a brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your Feedback Gives Me Life!!  
> And since mine is so busy right now, the updating schedule will slow down a bit: one chapter every TWO weeks! See you again soon!

**Author's Note:**

> You did it!!!  
> And if you liked this there is an absolutely amazing [Discord Server](https://discord.gg/z2dZ4qFJ6u) you can join if you are 18 years or older (don't worry it is not a nsfw server, just one for us older fans) <3 
> 
> Kudos, Comments, Subscriptions and Bookmarks are absolutely welcome! Updates once a week if not otherwise specified! <3


End file.
